The Rough Beast's Hour Come Round At Last
by Ellynne
Summary: The curse is coming at last, along with everything Rumplestiltskin has worked towards for centuries. Then, a voice he never expected to hear again tries to summon him from his cell in the mines. Rated T for Belle's injuries.
1. Things Fall Apart

"_Soon, soon, soon, soon, soon,_" Rumplestiltskin sang over and over again as he went back and forth in his cell, stopping the chant only to giggle and laugh.

He thought he was frightening the guards. He thought he remembered them barking orders at him, yelling commands, nothing he need pay any mind. He must be unnerving them if they thought _that_ would work. Not that he'd have them around to play games with for much longer. So sad that would be. So humorless, so _dull_, even for royal guards. Where had the charming prince and his snowy princess found them?.

Rumplestiltskin wished he could see their faces when it happened, wished they would remember for just a few moments as their world was torn apart, as his prison vanished around him and he was set free. They would gape like fishes gasping for air.

Should he turn them into fishes? It would be so funny to see their shocked faces as they drowned in air.

No, no, he couldn't do that. There was a reason. Oh, yes. The cage. The cage they had him trapped in. _Thought_ they had him trapped in. Should he let them know the truth? _Surprise, surprise, children. Now, who wants to come out and play?_ He laughed again, picturing their fishy faces.

But, no. There was a reason he had done this, a reason he was waiting. Three hundred years of waiting. Three hundred years of carefully moving all his pieces into place.

He pretended to be mad (_was he pretending? So hard to remember. A man would go mad, locked up in the dark. He wasn't a man. Could a monster go mad?_). The guards might fear a madman but they didn't ask what he was plotting. They didn't wonder why he waited, patiently, in the tiny hole they had given him. Till now, when there was no need to be patient any more.

"_Soon,_" he crooned again. "_The curse, the darkness. Soon._"

Oh, if only he had Regina here so he could tell her how funny it would be to let the guards remember, to know they had failed at _something. _She could give them whatever memories she wanted in their new world. Surely, she'd think it was funny, too? So hard to tell with Regina. She hadn't thought it funny at all when he told her how to make the curse work. . . .

He remembered a race of warriors who dealt with defeat and dishonor by taking their own lives. Painfully. What had they called it? _ Seppuku_. Done right, they made a cut just large enough, just deep enough to let their innards fall out while bleeding as little as possible. That way, pain often killed them before the injury did. It was an agonizing way to die. He remembered his own time as a soldier. How funny for those warriors to believe death was something you actually had to _find. _He giggled at the foolishness.

Never mind. Let the guards forget. Let them never know what a good joke they missed. Soon, his one failure—no, mistake, his one _mistake—_would be set right. After so many years, so many different attempts, he would fix it at last.

So, let his guards live for all he cared. Even if it wasn't funny. See? He had changed. He would find Bae and his son would see he had changed, that he wasn't a monster anymore.

Except he was a monster, wasn't he? Belle had seen that, hadn't she? When he'd sent her away. Not one mistake but two—

No, don't think of it. Think of Bae. Think of the look on his son's face when he knew he didn't have to be afraid of his papa anymore.

Think of the guards gaping like fishes, think of the smell of their blood—

No, stop it. Not today of all days. Not a monster. Not that kind of monster. Don't think of faces twisted in agony, of the sweet tang of blood in the air—

Rumplestiltskin tried to clear his head. Beneath the humor, the expectation, something was wrong. Why was he thinking of this, now? Something was there, at the edge of his mind. What was it?

The cage bound his magic. But, not completely. The guards were right to be afraid of him. More right than they knew. And there was a reason the prince and princess had come to see him. The future. Was that what was tugging at his thoughts? Was some piece of the future trying to make itself known to him?

What did it matter, now? Now, when everything was finally ready to begin? When he could feel the curse gathering, just waiting for Regina to add the final piece? Why should—

_Rumplestiltskin!_

The name skittered across his mind, a silent scream only he could hear.

No.

_No._

It wasn't possible.

She was dead. He had seen her grave. He had spoken to the villagers and heard their own version of the tale Regina told him.

_Rumplestiltskin!_

It was a scream of agony, a tortured soul.

_Rumplestiltskin. . . ._

And, now, it was weak. Fading.

Dying.

Impossibility didn't matter. _How _didn't matter. What mattered was what was happening. What mattered was what he needed to do.

He rushed to the small fissure in the wall. Where was it? He found the ink bottle, empty, and threw it aside. Underneath, there was the parchment, the scroll where he had scrawled the name he dared not forget over and over again.

He held it up, his hand shaking. The guards were staring at him, their weapons drawn, expecting the worse.

How wise.

He blew on the paper. Black ink scattered like so many autumn leaves. They flittered against the bars, dissolving them. He was free.

He heard the guards panicked yells, saw the light of desperation in their eyes, knowing they faced death. Not gaping fishes, after all. No matter. He ignored them, vanishing in a cloud of gold and purple—

—reappearing in the same room as the one who had called him.

Belle.

If he had been only human, he would not have known her, not after what they had done to her.

As it was, he wasted precious time—a second? Half a second? It felt like eternity—staring at her wounds.

Torture. She had been tortured. Regina, curse her black cinder of a heart, had decided to make good on the story she'd told him. Floggings. And flayings. And burns and cuts and broken bones and—

—And the cut made across her stomach. It must have been done just before they threw her on the floor like so much garbage, done with her at last. It was not as perfect a cut as the warriors of that far off land would have made. Too much blood mixed with everything else spilled out on the dungeon floor. The pain would be great, but it would be the blood loss that killed her. And soon.

Rumplestiltskin stared at the men who had done this. Not clerics. None of the so called servants of light who, he admitted, at least had cause to mistrust anything he had held for too long.

No, these were just guards, just men of Regina's. Just human. Looking at them, he could see she hadn't even bothered taking their hearts. Whatever they were doing, whatever their reasons, there were no spells binding them. It had been their choice.

He wasted another moment before he went to Belle looking for traps. Regina had lured him here, after all. Though he thought his cell would have been an easier place to attack him. After all, she didn't know he had a way out. And, whatever protections the fairies may have set on the place, Regina had already bypassed them once.

But, the wards carved into the walls were already defaced, their magic broken.

He cast his senses outward, looking for something else. Regina was not always very creative but, when she put her mind to it—

_(Like telling him Belle was dead when the witch had had her all along)_

—she was vicious. It would be like Regina to leave a spell meant to kill Belle just before he could reach her. Or an enchantment ready to strike him down. Or, Regina herself might appear, demanding his dagger in return for not wasting more, precious seconds as Belle's life dripped away.

Rumplestiltskin could deal with any of those tricks—and make a pretty paste to recolor the walls out of anyone who tried them. But, there was nothing.

Because he wasn't meant to be here.

Regina thought he was trapped in his cell.

The wards had been erased so he would hear Belle's death screams but be unable to come for her. The injuries, the torture, that was so Belle would die calling for him. And think he had chosen not to come.

Slowly—it seemed it was slowly, but he knew he was running, covering the few feet separating him from Belle as fast as he could go—he went to Belle and gathered her up in his arms, reaching out with healing spells, mending her injuries.

Distantly, he felt the curse being cast. Regina had done it.

Of course, she had. The queen could be remarkably self-centered, but let no one ever deny her showmanship. It was perfectly timed. Torture Belle, let her die. Let Rumplestiltskin know what Regina had taken from him, how perfectly she had outmaneuvered him in the moment before he forgot everything, leaving him powerless to retaliate.

Holding Belle close, he vanished in another cloud of smoke.

Behind him, the guards, still stunned and silent, had no time to escape as the stones of the castle fell apart, crushing them beneath its weight.

Rumplestiltskin reappeared in the workroom of his own castle. Spells and potions lined the wall, but he didn't bother with them, placing Belle gently on the floor as he poured more healing into her. The broken skin knit back together. The burns vanished. Broken bones became whole.

He placed a hand against her stomach, soothing the pain, as he put back what had been torn out, making torn flesh whole.

And it meant nothing.

The curse was coming. He could feel it spreading out across the land, a black cloud destroying everything in its wake.

Soon, it would reach them. It would tear them out of this world. It would destroy their memories of each other.

It would trap them in a land where everyone danced to Regina's tune, where he would be powerless to protect Belle.

Worse, a land where his cursed self might even obey Regina if she told him to destroy Belle, where he might smile cheerfully and obey even if she told him to open up the very wounds he'd just closed. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

Except one thing.

Holding Belle close against his chest with one hand, he reached up with the other.

No one knew the curse as well as he did, every facet, every wrinkle, every weakness. It was child's play to weave the shield around them and around his castle.

_I'm sorry, Bae. I am so sorry. Forgive me—_

The only way to save Belle, to protect her, was to keep her from ever being cursed in the first place. And he could not abandon her here, alone in his castle without even an explanation of what had happened. Rumplestiltskin held her close as the curse crashed against his defenses, and he abandoned his son for the second time.


	2. The Pity of Love

Rumplestiltskin felt the curse storm wane and pass. Belle, held tight against his chest, was still unconscious and beginning to shiver.

He cursed himself. He tended to forget about things like cold. Gently putting Belle down again, he quickly pulled off his own shirt—then realized what months of wearing the same clothes in a damp, filthy, unventilated, and smoke-filled pit had done to it.

No matter. He used a variation of the same spell he had used on Charming before sending him off to wake his little snowflake of a princess. The prince's leathers had been dragged through dungeons and scorched by an irritated dragon before being dunked in the lake around Maleficent's castle. No need to tell the lad what swam alongside him in those waters, but Snow White owed him a favor for cleaning the muck off her little boy, whether she knew it or not.

The spell scoured the filth off Rumplestiltskin and his clothes, along with the blood and other filth crusted on Belle, who hadn't fared much better over the months. As for the shirt, the silk cloth became longer and thicker, the better to keep her warm and covered as he wrapped it around her and fastened it closed. That done, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her down to her room.

It was her _real_ room, not the cell he'd given her, first as a sick joke, then, that last day, in a fit of rage. He'd kept it warded with spells, of course. Despite his long absence, no dust had gathered. But, her bed, he thought, was cold. In the village where he'd once lived, the better off families had had bed warmers, metal pans with a long handle made to hold hot coals. They were passed through the sheets on cold nights, leaving them comfortably warm. Poorer families either warmed a rock in the fire, wrapping it in rags before putting it under the covers at the foot of the bed, or made do. He and Bae had mostly made do.

It took only a drop of magic to turn the sheets toasty warm as he put Belle down on them. He wrapped the blankets around her. A quick growl aimed at the fireplace conjured a blaze to warm the room in a more natural fashion.

She was so thin, he thought, her ribs pressing against her skin. Her breathing was steady and even and there was no sign of fever. But, he was intensely aware of how fragile she was.

They were the only ones left in this world, he thought. Except for the monsters and beasts Regina couldn't be bothered with, creatures that could kill Belle with a swipe of their paws.

And all she had to protect her was him, when she could destroy him and all his power with a single touch of her lips.

Somewhere, the gods must be laughing.

He should stay as far away from her as he could, he thought, at least until Belle understood the danger she was in, until she was willing to accept certain precautions.

He didn't need sleep the way she did. Even if he had, he was terrified what might happen if he left her alone. Some curse of Regina's he'd missed might rise up and choke the life out of her. An injury he'd failed to heal could stop her heart. She could wake terrified and confused in the dark, injuring herself in an attempt to escape the dangers she'd already left behind. Lying down on top of the blankets beside her, he draped an arm protectively over her, listening to the sound of her breathing.

X

Belle woke screaming. The sound tore through Rumplestiltskin like a knife, even though he'd expected it. In the same way, even though nothing she did could hurt him—oliphants could trample over him (and had) without hurting him—it hurt when she struck out at him, as if he were the enemy.

He'd heard screams like that before. He remembered, back when he was just a man, the screams of wounded soldiers waking up at night in the infirmary. He remembered the screams of children torn from their parents. He remembered his own screams, after his father was killed when he was a child, when he relived the murder night after night in his dreams.

So, he held her as gently as he could, afraid she would hurt herself, and tried to sooth her, hoping she would recognize the sound of his voice. He knew the look in her eyes, too. Though they were wide open, he knew Belle didn't see him. She was still asleep, still trapped in her nightmares.

Then, to his relief, the look in her eyes changed. He saw it in her sudden, uncomprehending surprise. She was startled, recognizing what she was seeing but not understanding how it was possible.

"R-Rumple?"

He'd grinned with a childish delight. "In the flesh, Belle. How are you feeling?"

"Where. . . ? _How. . . ?_"

A giggle bubbled up inside him. "You called. I came. Regina was remarkably careless." Just as suddenly, when he said that name, all the humor drained out of him. "I'm so sorry, Belle. I thought you were dead. She told me-" Regina. _She'd_ told him. And he'd believed her.

Oh, he'd gone to her father's lands and seen her grave. He'd even used various disguises as he'd spoken to peasants and nobles, hearing the various stories they told. They were the sort of thing he'd expect to be circulated by a lord's loyal toadies. They claimed Maurice only called in healers and clerics to "cure" his daughter when she'd returned half-mad from her time with the "beast." There was gossip, too, about the tortures the Dark One was supposed to have visited on Belle, horrible stories that had twisted his stomach. Rumplestiltskin had only hoped those stories were nothing more than the kind of crude speculations people always liked to make about him and not based on anything Belle's murderers had done to her.

But, he had believed them, the heart of them. Belle was dead. Because of him. He had dared to love her, _care_ for her. What else could it lead to but disaster?

He thought of Milah and how that had ended. He thought of the stubborn murderess, Cora, a woman who'd destroyed everyone around her. She'd warped and twisted her daughter more than he ever had, and with far less reason. To him, Regina had been a means to save his son. To Cora . . . he wondered, sometimes, why she hadn't taken Regina's heart, the way she had so many others. Given what she'd done to the girl's heart while it was inside her, it might have been kinder in the long run. It was what Cora specialized in, twisting hearts and tearing them apart, inside her victims or out

There'd been a time, he thought, when she'd eased the loneliness in him. Perhaps, he'd even loved her. He'd thought he had. Perhaps, she'd loved him as well. But, that was before he knew what love was for Cora: a weakness, to be torn out at the root.

Or a hunger, he thought, to be fed on very ones she claimed to care for.

And he was the one who had taught her how to do it. If nothing else, he knew he deserved her—as he had never, ever deserved Belle.

No, he had not expected it to end well.

But, Belle was looking at him, still puzzled. "How? Regina said there were spells around the dungeon. Even if you'd tried, you couldn't get in."

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "Regina said that? She always liked to overestimate herself. Her spells kept me from hearing you, but they never would have kept me out." He wanted to pull her close, hold her the way he had as he held off Regina's curse.

It was one thing, he thought, to kiss her in the great hall of his castle, a kiss she had hoped would turn him into a mortal man. It was another to accept the monster's embrace in her own bed—a monster she knew had no intention of being other than he was. Even for her.

And, he told himself firmly, even if she didn't scream and try to fight him off, she was tired, and sick, and knew he held her life in his hands—his claws. If she accepted—if she _endured_ his touch it meant nothing except that it was ever so slightly better than what he might do to her if she didn't. Or she might think it was.

_I can offer you nothing but darkness._

Still, he reached out and gently brushed an errant curl away from her face. Surely, even a monster could do that. "Regina had taken down her wards. She probably did it right before—" He stopped, a growl rising up in his chest. He swallowed. He was a monster but he could act like a man. At least this much. His claws had strayed to her hair. He tried to concentrate on the feel of it between his fingers, shoving his anger aside. "When you called me, I heard." He grimaced. "She thought I wouldn't be able to come. She wanted you to die—wanted me to think you'd died believing I'd abandoned you." He wanted to cup her face in his hands, to assure himself she was really there, really _alive._ It had been so _close_. A few more minutes—a few more seconds—and he might have been too late.

He made a sound like wounded animal, not understanding why it was hurt. "You should have called me sooner," he said plaintively, knowing it for an unfair accusation. They would not have let her die before she called his name.

Not unless they'd been growing bored and impatient. Not unless they were stupid fools who didn't understand why the queen had given certain orders—or not unless they'd realized how unlikely Regina was to ever know if Belle died without calling him. . . .

He couldn't stop himself, then, from stroking her face, from feeling her warm and alive beneath his touch. His nails had grown long and sharp as needles during his months in that hole. But, his inhumanity sometimes had its benefits. A man might have had trouble touching her without those blades nicking skin. He wasn't a man. For all his mistakes, in this one, small way, he could hold her and keep her safe.

"I thought they meant to question me," Belle said, her hand touched his, caressed it. She was still tired and drowsy, he thought. She probably didn't even know what she was doing. "Mostly, Regina ignored me. But, something changed a few days before they—" Her voice broke, and Rumplestiltskin could see the nightmares in her eyes. Then, resolutely, she swallowed back the memories. "Before they hurt me," she said, voice steady. "A man came into my cell. He pretended he was there to rescue me. He told some story about you attacking my father, said that he needed a magic weapon to stop you. He thought I would know where it was. When I told him I didn't and I wouldn't help him if I did, he got angry and hit me. When I woke up, he was gone.

"I thought it was some trick of Regina's, she was looking for that weapon and thought I knew something. When her men came for me, I thought they meant to question me. I—I thought maybe there was something, something I'd seen or heard without realizing it was important, one of the treasures in your castle. I was afraid of saying something they could use, I tried not to even think of you.

"But, they never asked me anything. I remember at the end, one of them cut me across the stomach and I screamed. I—I must have screamed your name. Because, I remember the satisfied look on his face. And he said, 'That took long enough.'"

The first scream, Rumplestiltskin thought. And, if she hadn't screamed his name, would they have called in the queen to heal her? Or were they counting on stomach wounds causing a slow death, not realizing how badly they'd cut her? Either way, the gamble had worked.

And, then, they'd cut her down and thrown her aside like a dirty rag they were done with, probably not even noticing the pain that would have caused with those injuries. That would be the second scream.

And she had lain there, dying, the life draining out of her. They wouldn't have heard or cared as she whispered his name for a third and final time.

He should have brought them along when he rescued Belle. He should have taught them what pain truly was. He should have skinned them alive and made Belle dancing slippers out of their hides. And then healed them so he could skin them again day after day—

"Rumplestiltskin, stop it!"

Belle's hands were cupping his face, forcing him to look at her. She was looking at him, her face pale and upset.

"Stop what, Belle?"

"Whatever you're thinking, whatever you're planning, stop it! Those men aren't worth it!"

She meant that. She _believed_ that. Those men—men he wouldn't toss to the Ogres to play with because that would be too quick and merciful—deserved to be rescued in her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," he growled, remembering "They're dead—and not by my hand. Regina removed the protections on her castle. That's how I heard you. It also meant parts of it were destroyed when a certain curse of hers was let loose. I shielded us from it. I didn't shield them."

Belle gave an unhappy sigh but said, "I understand. But, I'm glad that you didn't take revenge on them. Even if you didn't mean to."

"Not everyone deserves your mercy, Belle, those men least of all."

"Good, because they're not the ones I'm giving it to. You are. You are a good man, Rumplestiltskin, whether you know it or not. Don't darken your heart for their sakes."

"It's dark enough already. What I would have done to them could hardly darken it anymore."

"Yes, it could." Generals ordering their men into battle had sounded less firm. Her eyes slid to his mouth. "You are a man, Rumplestiltskin. Remember that." Resolutely, she looked up, meeting his eyes. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

The way she saw him. It was so far from what he really was. And yet. . . . "I wish I could, too." He looked at her mouth. _Too tempting,_ he thought. _Too tempting by far._ It was his turn to look away. "Well, I can promise not to torture the dead men," he said with a poor attempt at humor. "And, if there is anything else I can do for you, Belle, you have only to ask."

"I—ah" Belle blushed and looked away. "There is one thing."

"Name it."

"Could you—could you put some clothes on? You—you don't even have a _shirt._"

Rumplestiltskin looked at himself, realizing she was right. He had on nothing but his dragon hide trousers, silvery and scaled and skin tight. He looked back at her beet red face and couldn't help giggling again. Knowing it would only embarrass her further, but unable to help himself, he said, "Actually, I have a shirt, love. You're wearing it."


	3. Cold Heaven

"It's beautiful," Belle said as they walked in the gardens.

Rumplestiltskin, casting a critical eye at the gray skies threatening rain and the autumn leaves blowing around the half-frozen grass, didn't agree but didn't argue. By his calculations, it had been over a year since Belle was able to walk outside, and he didn't mean to ruin it for her.

They were at least approaching the winter gardens, the ones that were at their best as the cold weather came on. The fire bushes—the regular kind, not the burning ones—had already turned red. Conifers and other evergreens provided most of the color here. But, there were other plants, like the winter greenrose, the sharp hues of its bark clearly visible only when the leaves were gone.

"Did you plant this yourself?" Belle asked, her eyes large and hungry as she took in the light and colors and _smells_ that had been denied her for so long. Seeing her reaction, Rumplestiltskin thought he should take her to the orchards where she could taste fruit from the trees. It was past the season for peaches, one of her favorites, but he could encourage one or two to appear by the time they got there.

Months of prison rations left their mark, and Rumplestiltskin had only served her simple porridges and herbal teas these past few days. People could sicken—even die—from rich food after months of starvation. But, she was stronger, now. A single peach—or half a one, if they split it between them—would be safe enough. He wouldn't even need to add anything extra to her medicinal draughts tonight. Probably. Likely. Still, better safe than sorry. . . .

Though, to Belle, the tasteless porridge, might have been nectar and ambrosia. Rumplestiltskin, eating alongside her, thought it a considerable improvement over his own prison fare. But those had been the cold, wormy gruels his captors had given him. He was the Dark One. No one needed to worry about accidentally poisoning _him._

He wondered if they'd heaved the stuff directly off the compost heaps. Just for him. He knew they never heated it enough to risk harming the worms, who'd always been quite wriggly when he got them. Oh, well, they'd added flavor.

So, he'd asked Belle what the witch had fed her. She didn't want to discuss it—Belle was never one to court pity—but he'd insisted he needed to know for magical and medical reasons.

The slop (his word, not hers) they'd brought her had been gruel, like his. Sometimes, some vegetables were thrown in. It was often cooked or even burned. "The burnt ones weren't so bad," Belle added. "They tasted foul, but they never seemed moldy. And there was more to eat. I think those were meals they'd meant for the servants or the guards. If they decided the food wasn't fit to serve them, I got it."

"How bad was your usual food?"

"Rumple. . . ."

"I need to know, Belle."

She sighed. "All right, then. It smelled so foul when I first had some, I couldn't stomach it. It was two days before I was hungry enough to try. And, then, I still . . . I had to think _very hard_ of things beside food to keep it down. I don't know why I didn't get sick more often."

Rumple, asking more questions, wondered why she didn't, too—or why she got sick at all. Regina had a few wisps of sense. He would bet Charming's golden sword against a paper knife right before battle she'd used some kind of magic to keep the stuff she sent Belle from poisoning her. But, that begged the question why sometimes it _had_ made her ill.

Of course, Regina got bored at times, and hurting people was a distraction. But, from things Belle remembered, he thought it even simpler. The days she was sick all matched up to times Regina had been angry with him: the time he refused to help with that mermaid, the time he laughed when she asked him to make a charm to track the Snow White or the werewolf who travelled with her. Belle had spent three horrible, pain wracked days after he helped Prince Charming escape the Infinite Forest.

But, now, he reminded himself, she was strong enough to walk in the gardens. So long as she took care. And didn't wear herself out. And was properly dressed for the weather. Belle's dress, made of thick velvet, was warm enough, as was the fur-lined cloak he'd insisted she wear over it. Since bringing her back, he'd filled her wardrobe with a princess' ransom in gowns—and boots and stockings and gloves and everything else he could think of that she might need. There was barely room for her old, work clothes—he was in favor of just throwing those away, but Belle forbade it.

His real worry was that, warm as they were, these clothes might be _too_ heavy. He kept looking for signs she was wearing herself out. She would probably object if he offered to carry her back to the castle.

Yet, she let him watch over her as she fell asleep, let him hold her when the nightmares wracked her. As they did every night.

She would let him kiss away the pain, if he could.

He had told her that first morning. They needed his magic to survive.

He hadn't told her why.

The same way he hadn't told her about a very small mask, woven from magic. . . .

For now, Rumplestiltskin enjoyed walking beside her in the gardens and answering her questions. Odd, the idea of gardens planted for pleasure had seemed so strange when he first encountered it. Oh, peasants were as capable of prizing flowers for their beauty as nobles were. They just prized them more for the food they produced.

His village, tucked in the rocky Borderlands, had had harsh winters and harsher soil. Practical things—like gardens that kept you from starving—were valued above all else.

And yet. They found excuses to plant lavender and roses. Daffodils were admired for their ability to begin to grow when the snow was barely melted.

And . . . he admitted he liked these gardens. Perhaps not as much as Belle. But, he had grown fond of them. And he was ever so slightly flattered that Belle would even wonder if he had created this, even if he had to shake his head, denying it. "The original garden belonged to a princess," he told her. "She was never allowed outside the castle grounds where she lived—and they were very small grounds." A princess Belle reminded him of. She'd been determined to escape her captors and create her own fate. "Keeping the garden helped keep her sane. Yet, she traded it all to me for a chance to escape and see the world. I've kept it up since then." And, no matter what anyone said, moving an entire garden, with or without magic, wasn't easy.

"Did it work out for her, seeing the world?"

"I suppose. Within a year of escaping, she found work as a gardener at another castle, and almost never left it after that. Her old life was pretty much the same as the new one. Although, they had much larger grounds."

"But, she _could_ leave. That makes all the difference."

He looked sharply at Belle, half-expecting her to be looking at the castle walls, longing to be on the other side of them. But, she was looking at him, smiling warmly. He thought of his cell. Mad as he'd been at the end—mad as he sometimes still was—he'd known he could leave any time he wanted. Belle had had no such promise. "How did you stay sane in that dungeon?"

Her eyes grew darker. "I'd heard stories about what happened to men locked up alone too long. I heard stories from survivors in the war, too, ones who'd managed to stay hidden for months in areas the Ogres had taken over. Some of them weren't quite sane by the time they got out. No wonder, given the things some of them had seen. But, I remembered each of them said it was the loneliness that weighed on them the most—not the danger, or the constant fear, or the deaths they'd seen, the loneliness.

"So, I decided at the beginning that was what I had to fight. I came up with lists of things to do each day. I tried to keep my mind focused. I think I still may have gone bit . . . strange. Towards the end."

That startled a giggle out of him. "Oh, no, dearie. I've seen that kind of madness. You had _nothing_ like that."

"Did you?"

"Me? Oh, I've had all sorts of madness."

"Yes. No. I mean—Rumplestiltskin, what happened to you after I left?"

He stopped, cold as the stones in the path as he remembered. "I lost you. That was enough."

"You said—you told me Regina didn't think you'd be _able_ to come for me. Why? What made her think that?"

He looked at Belle, admiring her quick mind. She wasn't like Cora, the Queen of Hearts. That witch had sniffed out secrets the way a hound tracked wounded prey, by the scent of blood on them. And Belle wasn't like Regina, who _could_ figure out what people were up to when she bothered to remember she wasn't the only person in the all the worlds. It usually meant she'd found a use for them.

But, Belle—Belle simply cared for everyone she met, cared so deeply she couldn't help seeing what others would never notice.

"I let her think I was trapped."

"Trapped? _You? _And—she _believed _that?"

"Trapped. Me. And she did believe it. Because I did everything I could to make it believable. I went out of my way to annoy a little princess over a deal _she_'d badgered _me_ into making." He didn't titter, but his voice went high and mocking. "_Finally, _she was annoyed enough to go to the fairies and_ beg _them to save her from the evil beast and lock me away. I had to pretend to be a _complete idiot_ to fall for the clever, little trap they'd made." He paused, remembering his deal with the Princess Ella, and his voice changed again, becoming deeper, more human. "No, that's not true. I warned her." He didn't know why. He remembered what it had been like to be poor and desperate, the way Ella was when he met her, even if he'd never been desperate just for _himself._

Yes, she'd been selfish. Just like Milah. Willing to give anything for a better life. Even, he'd thought, her child. Yet, he'd warned her. Twice. The first time was when she made the deal. He'd told her to change her life herself and not rely on magic to do it.

The second time was when he knew for certain how far she'd go to protect her own child. She knew who he was by then and what the stories said he did to deal breakers. But, she still faced him down to protect her unborn daughter.

No, she wasn't like Milah at all.

He'd also, once he started paying attention to her, seen how he could use the little cinder-maid to further his own plans. She would create the future he'd already seen, where he was trapped, a monster with his claws clipped and his fangs pulled, so to speak. Snow White would come ask her question and look at him with compassion for what he had fallen to. She would remember when Charming was Regina's prisoner and she was King George's. She would remember the times he'd helped her with fondness, not fear—and she would trust him with her daughter's name.

Then, Regina would come ask her question and would not be afraid to humor the madman's requests. She would pay the two prices he needed to ensure the curse would be broken.

Yet, with all that in the balance, he'd warned Ella. Not that she'd listened.

"Deals made with magic are hard to break. Breaking them _with_ magic. . . . I did warn her, Belle."

"What happened?"

Belle, he thought, was the only person who would ask 'What happened?' not 'What did you do?'

"She lost what the deal gained her. Not my doing. And not beyond mending. It wasn't to benefit her, but I have already arranged for the hero who will set things right. When the time comes." He laughed. "I doubt she'll remember to thank me."

"And, now, I'm supposed to ask about the princess and stop asking about your imprisonment, aren't I?"

"That was the idea. It's not working?"

Belle pursed her lips. "No, it's not. They imprisoned you?"

"Oh, yes." In a sing-song voice, he added, "Deep in the mines where fairy dust is dug, behind bars made from the bones of behemoth."

Questionable alliteration wasn't distracting her, either. Belle gave a business-like nod. "Can you show me?"

Rumplestiltskin was silent. He had no desire to compare his imprisonment—imprisonment he'd accepted and all but created with his own hands—an imprisonment he'd _chosen_ to stay in—with Belle's. He also saw the stubborn light in her eyes. "There's no point, Belle."

"I think there is. Please, Rumplestiltskin."

Please.

He had promised himself he wouldn't lie to her. Ever.

There was a small pool in the winter garden. Later in the year, it would be a frozen disc of ice. The white trees stretching their branches over it would be laced with snow with icicles hanging from them like candelabrum in a cathedral. Now, it was brown with fallen leaves. Still, it would do. As scrying went, it wasn't even complicated. It wasn't an image of anything hidden or forbidden, just a memory freely offered.

All the same, he saw Belle pale as she stared at the image that appeared in the waters. It was only the cell, no mad imp inside it, no bravely foolish guards outside, and no sign of any worms. But, it was enough. "That's worse," she whispered. "Much worse than what Regina did to me."

"_No_," he growled. "It's not." He stood behind her, safely away from her beautiful mouth, and wrapped his arms around her, trying to reassure her. "I knew I could leave whenever I wanted. I had the key with me the whole time." He hadn't been chained. He hadn't gone from one minute to the next never knowing if his captors would decide they'd overestimated his worth or that he was worth more dead (as Regina had with Belle at the end) "And I'm not a man, Belle—don't argue. It's true. Things that would kill you don't even scratch me. I know my limits."

He had also meant to escape through the curse. For twenty-eight years, he would have rested in the mind of a patient, imperturbable mortal, a man with no Dark Curse whispering in his mind—and no memories of the people he'd loved and failed burdening his heart.

But, no matter. He was Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, the greatest wizard in a thousand worlds. Immortal. Unbreakable. It didn't matter.

"No, you don't know your limits at all," Belle said. She sounded angry, but she was gripping his arms almost as hard as he was holding her. "Why do you think I asked this? Do you think I can't see when something's hurt you? There are times you're—you're not yourself."

Now, _that_ was funny. He couldn't help tittering. "Then who am I?"

"Rumple, when I first woke up, you were wearing nothing but your trousers. And you hadn't even noticed. I spent months washing your laundry and putting it away with the rest of your clothes. You've never been that thoughtless about what you wore. And, the way you laugh at things—"

"I've _always_ laughed at things."

The tension he felt in Belle eased, and she leaned back into him. "I know," she said softly. "I love the way you laugh. But, can you tell me you don't know what I mean?"

And, he did know. The mad laughter bubbled up more often and at less appropriate moments. Belle was right about the clothes, too. He had been careful of his appearance—meticulously careful—for centuries. Since that morning, lying beside Belle, he_ had_ dressed carefully every day. But, he had had to remind himself to do it. And he had to tell himself that Belle expected it, that it reassured her.

Apparently, it hadn't reassured her enough.

There were other differences, too, ones she hadn't mentioned but he suspected she'd noticed. His scales shifted colors with his moods. He remembered times, after Belle was here the first time, that his scales had faded to almost human colors. Starting in prison, he had gone hours at a time when they were bright gold, glittering so brightly in the torches, you'd have though an army of snails had crawled over him, covering him in damp slime.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin said. "I know. But, time is the only thing that can change that. And you. Being with you helps more than you can imagine, Belle."

Belle nodded. "I understand. It—it helps me to be with you. And when I have nightmares. I can sleep when I know you're nearby. " She paused. Then, almost shyly, asked. "What about you, Rumple? Do you have nightmares?"

"No. I . . . I don't really dream. Not the way you do."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I. . . ." It was his turn to become shy. And tongue tied. "I . . . wish I could—could help more. With your nightmares."

"You help all you can."

"I'd like. . . . to hold you when you go to sleep. To share your bed. To—to be a husband to you." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. They had been lurking at the back of his mind for days, now. But, he had meant to choose his moment better. Or just to choose it instead of babbling like a fool. Still— "Will you marry me, Belle?"

Belle had gone very still in his arms. He cursed himself for having ruined the small bit of peace they had been having. "Never mind. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"I want that," Belle said very softly. Wistfully? Sadly? His heart pounded, uncertain if he should be happy or terrified. "But, I can't even kiss you, Rumple. How can I—how could we—" She couldn't find the words—he wondered if she knew them? Noblewomen could be strangely sheltered, sometimes—but Rumple could see her cheeks turning red. She knew what she meant, even if she didn't know how to say it.

"I made something," he told her. "A piece of magic. I know you don't like that, Belle. But . . . there isn't any other way. Except to go on as we have. And I will. If that's what you want. You don't—don't need to be afraid of me, whatever answer you give.

"I made a small mask. Out of magic. If you wear it, you can speak through it, eat through it, breathe through it. It won't harm you in the least. But, if we kiss, it won't change me. Would you—would you wear it?"

Belle didn't answer for so long his heart nearly stopped again. "If you had this," she asked slowly, "why didn't you just slip it on me that first night when I was asleep? Or any time after that. I couldn't have stopped you."

And he'd been tempted. But— "Would you ever forgive me if I had, Belle? Besides—" He didn't giggle—he didn't even laugh—but there was a human warmth in his voice. "—It only works if you know what it is and choose it willingly."

Belle laughed. "Why does magic always have catches like that?"

"It's not a catch. It's . . . a balance. A piece of logic. The kind of logic you feel, not the kind you think. It's your love. It's your power. It's your choice whether or not to use it."

"Then, yes," Belle said. "I'll marry you." She laughed again. "I can hardly wait to see my father's face when we tell him."


	4. Doom of a Dream

Belle felt Rumplestiltskin stiffen behind her. "What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?" She felt something cold, like a knife blade, in her stomach. "Is my father all right? Did something happen to him?"

"I believe he's well. As far as I know," Rumplestiltskin said. "But, there's something you need to see. In my tower."

He led her back to the castle and up the long, winding stair that led to the top of the highest tower in the castle. Back in her days as his housekeeper, Belle had never been allowed in this room without Rumplestiltskin's supervision, not that she needed his warning not to touch _anything_ in here without his express permission. The rest of the castle was full of wonders. This room was full of dangers.

The room was magically lit, the windows closed. As rumple led her in, she saw what looked like a small scrap of cloth made of light, floating in a glass sphere. _A magic mask,_ she thought, remembering what Rumplestiltskin had told her moments before in the garden.

Rumplestiltskin stared at the tower windows like a man steeling himself for his own execution. Then, he snapped his fingers, and the shutters flew open.

"Go," he said, waving to the window in front of them. "Look."

It was Belle's turn to hesitate. She looked at the open window, feeling the same dread (like a cold knife in her stomach) she had felt during the war when messengers arrived, their dead eyes haunted by the men they had seen. And, she had often thought, haunted by the men they used to be.

Running away from what those messengers had to say wouldn't have helped, and it wasn't going to help here. Steeling herself, she walked forward.

She saw the familiar peaks, visible from much of the castle—and, from this high up, she saw what was beyond them. Belle gaped. She'd seen the devastation left behind by the Ogres, fields destroyed, boulders scattered like autumn leaves, trees torn up by the roots in the Ogres' frenzy. But, this. . . .

The mountains nearest the castle were still covered with trees. Midway up, where snow had already fallen but where the trees could still grow, she saw the deep green of pines against the stark white around them. Lower down, there were deciduous trees and bushes, still ablaze with autumn colors.

Beyond them were blackened ruins. Trees withered while still rooted in the ground, leaves burnt and gone. The earth around them ranged from ash gray to black. In the distance, she saw the town where she had once bought straw for Rumplestiltskin. It was in ruins, as though a thousand years had passed instead of a few seasons.

"How?" Belle asked. "What did this?"

"Regina," Rumplestiltskin said, standing behind her.

Belle turned to him, horrified. He stood with his head bent, as if awaiting an attack. "She did this? Because—because you rescued me?"

"What?" Rumplestiltskin looked up, startled. "No, of course not. The other way around, if anything. She waited till she was ready to cast it before hurting you. If it had caught me, I wouldn't be in any position to get revenge, in my cage or out of it."

Belle looked out the window again, still trying to understand. This had been aimed at him? "She—she tried to kill you?" And that was why she had wanted Belle to call him? But, Regina had thought he was trapped. And he'd said himself it wouldn't have made a difference if he was in that cell or not. How. . . ?

"No, not kill me." He hesitated. Then, he came up behind her, his arms wrapped protectively around her. He lowered his face, brushing against her cheek and neck. It didn't feel so much like an embrace as resignation. "She was planning this for a long time. The curse to end all curses. It wasn't just here. It was everywhere. Our whole world. She took everyone from our world to another one."

"What? She—_why? _I don't understand. Why would she do that?" For a moment, Belle wondered if she was still in the queen's prison, slowly going mad. She had always enjoyed Rumplestiltskin's quick wit—and he had enjoyed her ability to follow his play with words. Now, nothing he said made sense.

"Because she believes it's the only way for her to have a happy ending." He was weary, as though the words he was giving her were a terrible burden he could barely lift. "The people the curse took, their lives have been rewritten. They are only who and what the queen wants them to be. They can't even rebel against her. Not yet. They're trapped in time. Nothing changes, nothing alters, nothing can come to a head." He lifted a hand from her waist, almost—but not quite—brushing his fingers against her hair, not quite daring to complete the gesture. "If the curse had taken you, Regina could have erased all your memories of who you are. You would be a new person in that land. Your name, your identity, everything you knew about yourself would be only what the queen made it.

"If it had taken me, I wouldn't have known who you were. I—I wouldn't have known to protect you. I might—Regina could have changed my memories. She might have told me to hurt you,_ torture_ you. And, in that world, I would do what she ordered."

Belle closed her eyes. She could hear the pain in his voice. The mere thought of what he could have done—unknowingly, unwillingly—tormented him. But, she was beginning to see something else in his answers. "My father. My people. Rumple, what will she do to them?"

"Nothing. Nothing more than she does to everyone else. They'll live lives of quiet misery. But, not torture. Not pain. Their strengths will be hidden from them. In your father's case. . . ." He considered, "He's a fighter and known for his integrity. That's why your king granted him those holdings where bribery's such a temptation. Your father also understands trade, if only to keep an eye on it. So, in that world . . . I would guess him to be a trader or merchant of some sort, an unsuccessful one always struggling to meet his debts and sliding into dishonesty to get by. Or tempted to it," he added hastily. "The curse has limits in what it can make people do."

He was trying to comfort her, she thought, to reassure her of her father's honor—even when she'd heard the fear in Rumplestiltskin's voice over what Regina might have made _him_ do and that he wouldn't be able to stop her.

"But, I know how Regina thinks, Belle." His voice was fervent, trying to convince her. "She would go after you to hurt me—or just to have a weapon against me. She won't go after you father. Even if she remembers who he is, which I doubt, she won't think of him as a tool against me and . . . she saw you as just another pawn, not as the only true queen in play."

"You're saying she went after everyone in the world for revenge. And you think she'll just ignore my father?"

"She went after a handful of people, her stepdaughter, her stepdaughter's husband, some others. Taking the rest of the world with them, for her, that's incidental."

Incidental. So many lives. So much pain. Incidental.

Regina had never questioned her, never tortured her beyond shutting her up in a cage and forgetting about her. Till the end.

Yes. Belle could see it. Destroying a world, destroying unnumbered lives. For Regina, all that suffering barely deserved notice as a side effect.

It was too much to take in. She could barely believe Rumplestiltskin himself could take it in. Except. . . .

Belle swallowed. Pieces were sliding into place in her mind in a way she didn't even want to imagine, the implications she didn't want to see in his answers. She reminded herself of the messengers and the war. Running away never did anything but delay the inevitable.

"Rumple," she said softly. "You know a great deal about this curse." She waited for him to make an answer, to see her fears and brush them aside.

But, all he said was, "Yes." His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far away.

"Why?" Belle asked. He didn't answer. "Rumple," her voice cracked with desperation. "You were Regina's teacher. You know her. How she thinks, how she plans. You knew about this curse before she cast it—in time to protect me from it. Tell me why."

"Belle. . . ."

"_Please_. Tell me."

When the words were at last dragged out of some deep place inside of him, Belle was reminded of a saying in the Marchlands for a gift unwillingly given, "Like a blessing from a Dark Magician."

"Because I gave her the curse," he told her. "I designed it, I wove every intricate thread together, and I gave it to her."

Belle broke free from his grasp and turned, looking him in the eye. "Why?" she whispered. "Why would you do that?"

"Belle. . . ."

"_Why?_"

He reached out towards her but didn't touch her, his fingers hovering over her breast, near her heart. His eyes were full of more grief than Belle could imagine. "Because," his voice was hoarse, not even a whisper. "I knew I could never cast it myself."

Belle stared at him.

Then, she turned and left the room.

Rumplestiltskin didn't follow.

**Author's note: **I was trying to tie each chapter into a William Butler Yeats poem, only to discover he doesn't do Rumbelle very well. This chapter gets its name from e. e. cummings "what if a much of a which of a wind."

_what if a much of a which of a wind_  
_gives the truth to summer's __lie;_  
_bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun_  
_and yanks immortal stars __awry?_  
_Blow king to beggar and queen to seem_  
_(blow friend to fiend: blow __space to time)_  
_—when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,_  
_the single __secret will still be man_

_what if a keen of a lean wind flays_  
_screaming __hills with sleet and snow:_  
_strangles valleys by ropes of thing_  
_and stifles __forests in white ago?_  
_Blow hope to terror; blow seeing to blind_  
_(blow pity __to envy and soul to mind)_  
_—whose hearts are mountains, roots are __trees,_  
_it's they shall cry hello to the spring_

_what if a dawn of a __doom of a dream_  
_bites this universe in two,_  
_peels forever out of his __grave_  
_and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?_  
_Blow soon to never and never __to twice_  
_(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)_  
_—all nothing's only our __hugest home;_  
_the most who die, the more we live_


	5. Deeper than all Roses

_It hurt. The burning pain on her back where the skin was torn or ripped away entirely, the pulsing pain in her hands and feet where they had broken the bones one by one, the raw pain in her throat from screaming till she couldn't scream anymore._

_The guards were angry, frustrated. They hadn't asked her any questions, hadn't tried to make her confess lies or deny truths, hadn't done anything except hurt her over and over again. One of them came and grabbed what was left of her hair (they had torn it away in small locks, taking bits of scalp with it). With a disgusted sound, he wiped the blood away from her eyes. "We're done with you," he said, holding up a jagged edged knife. "See this? This will send you to that monster of yours."_

_For the first time since this began, she felt a surge of panic. Send her to that monster. . . ? He had to mean Rumplestiltskin. Did he mean Rumple was dead? Was that why the queen was doing this, because she didn't need Belle alive anymore? What had happened to him?_

_Before she could ask, the guard thrust the blade into her into and tore—_

Belle woke, gasping for breath. Her heart hammering against her ribs. _Just a dream_, she told herself again. _None of it real. Just a dream._

She'd fallen asleep in front of the fireplace in her room, where she'd curled up after the last string of nightmares drove her from her bed. Though the room wasn't cold, she was shivering. She'd been trying to draw comfort from the flames, blankets from her bed draped around her, when the latest dream took her.

It was unfair, she told herself, trying to see the humor, however dark. She had never had nightmares like this while she was Regina's prisoner. Now she was finally free of the queen's prison, she had them all the time.

Only three days ago, she would have woken up to find Rumplestiltskin already beside her, holding her tight and whispering comfort, his voice chasing the nightmares away.

It would be so easy, she thought, to call him. . . .

_No. I can't. Not yet._

Belle had known from the beginning how this would end. She knew how terrible loneliness and isolation were. And she knew what her nightmares were like.

_But._

But, no matter how her heart ached for him—no matter how painful it was to be without him—she couldn't just pretend she hadn't heard the things Rumplestiltskin said. The curse that burned mountains, that tore away the very memories of the people it fell on, enslaving them to Regina's will—trapping them in an even worse prison than Belle had known where at least her mind had been her own—that's what Rumplestiltskin had done.

And she didn't understand why.

_And, if I did, would that make a difference?_ Was there anything he could say that would make it all better?

_And, if he can't, what then? Do I avoid the only other person in the world for the rest of my life?_

She wondered if she should go down to the kitchens and make tea, enough to keep her awake the rest of the night. For the past three days, trays of food and medicine had been appearing at regular intervals in her room, vanishing when she was done with them. Rumplestiltskin still seemed nervous about giving her real tea with her meals, but she knew where the kitchens were.

_But, I want to sleep,_ she thought. Her body ached to crawl back into bed and rest, while her mind was terrified of what waited for her once she did.

She stiffened, aware of the shadow behind her the moment before it spoke.

"Belle?" The voice was timorous, but she jerked as if it were a tiger growling behind her. Rumplestiltskin saw the terror in her eyes and flinched. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. I—I just thought—"

"No, please," Belle said. "I just had a nightmare. I'm still on edge." The apology fell out of her mouth automatically. She hesitated, wanting to send him away, wanting him to stay. "Please, come in."

Rumplestiltskin entered the room, walking towards her uncertainly, as if expecting _her_ to turn into a tiger and attack _him_. "You haven't been sleeping well." He said. She supposed he only had to look at her to know. Or had he been watching her? As if in answer, he cleared his throat and, belatedly, turned it the statement into a question. "Have you?"

Belle sighed. It wasn't as if she hadn't sensed him there, a nervous presence always hovering just out of sight. "No," she admitted. "I still have nightmares." Nightmares from the queen, not from what he'd done. Not yet. She supposed she would get around to them.

"I'm sorry." He came closer. Then, awkwardly, as though he weren't certain how to do it, he sat down beside her, not quite touching her. He started to put his arm around her, then stopped, looking like he thought she might bite him.

Not sure what she meant by it—forgiveness? Forbearance? Or just exhaustion?—Belle leaned back against him. "I missed you," she said, too tired to judge the wisdom of her words. "I need time to think. But, I missed you." The panic from her nightmare was already easing just by being near him. His arm circled round her. She could feel his warmth through his soft, silk shirt. _It would be so easy,_ she thought. Belle could let this moment stretch on, forget the past three days and the revelations that had created them. . . .

Except she couldn't. "Please, Rumple, tell me: why? Why did you create that curse? And why give it to Regina?"

Rumplestiltskin put his other arm around her, like a drowning man reaching for land, pulling her close. "I'm a coward," he said bleakly. "You were right when you called me that, Belle. I always have been." He loosened his grip to look at his gold-scaled hand, black claws curving towards. It was the sign of what he was, she though, and what he wasn't, his power and his curse. "I tried to make up for it by collecting power," he whispered. "And the power become so important that I couldn't let go. Not even when it meant losing the most important person in my life."

He was speaking of long ago, and she realized she knew who must mean. "Your son."

She felt Rumplestiltskin nod. "His name is Baelfire." The word lingered in the air, a soft breath full of love and pain. For a moment, Belle understood all the old tales of the magic of names. It seemed that name should have summoned the boy from beyond the grave.

But, the word faded, and no child appeared.

Rumplestiltskin sighed. "After I lost him, I dedicated myself to finding him again. I went down many paths. . . . Until I found a curse that would take me to the land where he . . . escaped." _Escaped_. There was a bitterness and an acknowledgement in that word that stung.

"But, you said the curse traps them. Nothing changes. You wouldn't even know who Baelfire is."

"For now. For a time. But, a savior was also part of the curse, the daughter of Prince Charming and Snow White. That's why I had to be in that cell, so they wouldn't be afraid to come and ask me what needed to be done. And I could tell them to protect their child. The fairies made a special magic, just for her. The little princess is in that world but untouched by the curse. In time, she'll find them and break it. But, when that happens, they'll still be in that world."

"And, if you were there. . . ."

"Then I'd be able to find him."

But, he hadn't gone. Because, Regina would remember in that world, and he wouldn't. Because, Regina would have been able to hurt Belle, and he wouldn't even know to stop her—if she didn't make him torture Belle with his own hands. That was one nightmare Belle hadn't had, not ever. She shuddered, leaning closer against him.

"My father," she said. "All the other people under the curse, what happens to them?"

He fingered a lock of her hair, running it through his hand meditatively . The same magic he'd used to heal her had restored it after the guards had torn it away. "Nothing, I think. Regina can be petty—incredibly petty—in her grudges and her revenge. But, people who aren't part of that, she doesn't even think of them. When the time comes for the curse to break . . . I don't know. I was supposed to be there, helping the savior. Her coming would have made me remember, even before the curse is broken. I would have kept Regina from getting too out of control. I . . . I'm not a hero, Belle. I meant to let it unfold with as little harm to me as possible. But . . . your people shouldn't have been in danger. Now, I don't know. I don't know what will happen without me keeping Regina in line.

"I'm trying to find a way to reach that world," he added. "There should be a way. One that keeps you safe but let's me do what needs to be done." He shifted slightly, gazing at her, eating her up with his eyes. She wondered what she looked like. Probably, like something even a hungry Ogre wouldn't bother with.

"You need to sleep," Rumplestiltskin said. "I know potions that will help."

"Magic?"

"No, actually. Medicine. Did you know I have books full of potions that don't require any magic to make? I . . . could teach them to you. If you'd like. And. . . ." he cleared his throat. "I have a gift for you. Something I thought might help." He looked over at the open door and gave a quick whistle. Two half-grown puppies came into the room—the largest puppies Belle had ever seen. They were the size of bears. They looked at Belle with large, hopeful eyes.

"I found them near the village," he told her, sounding about the same as the puppies looked. "Regina seems to have left a lot of the animals behind. I, er, brought a few of them to the castle. These fellows were on their own. I thought. . . . Belle, you and I both know what loneliness is like. They're not the same as a person, but they're company of a sort. I—I don't want you coming back to me because the alternative is worse."

Belle bit her lip, not certain how to answer that just yet. "What are their names?"

"I was thinking Phobos and Deimos, but whatever you like is fine."

Phobos and Deimos, Fear and Panic, the hounds of war. Belle couldn't help smiling. "What about Pythias and Damon? True friends instead of terrors?"

For the first time that evening, Rumplestiltskin managed to smile back at her. "As you wish."

"But, why make them so big?

"Who says I did it?"

"Because I've never seen bear-sized dogs and you're the only wizard in the room."

"Oh, well, then. I thought it would help you feel safer. And help me feel safer, knowing you're with them—they'll protect you as if you were their own mother."

"Rumple. . . ."

"It was a very small spell, Belle. They're dogs. They could feel that way about you in a day or two. I just hurried it along.

She laughed weakly. "I suppose. And I'm too tired to argue. Rumple. . . ." She wasn't sure how to say this so that it didn't mean more than she meant. "Would you . . . stay by me? Just for tonight? Just—just while I sleep?"

His hand on her hair stilled. "Of course. If you wish it."

"I—I think I do. And, Rumple?"

"Yes?"

"That mask you made. It—it would be safer, wouldn't it? If—if you gave it to me. Don't you think?"

"I—I—of course . I'll fetch it. At once."

"I don't mean—I don't mean more than that. Not yet."

"No, no, of course not. You just want to be safe."

"Yes, just to be safe. Anything else—I'm too tired to think of anything else. Just, let me rest. And, talk to me again. In the morning."

X

Rumplestiltskin summoned the mask from the tower. If fell into his hand, a piece of cool moonlight. But, Belle was already asleep, breathing easily as she lay there, curled up against him. Gently, he picked her up and carried her back to her bed, arranging the blankets around her as he tucked her in.

He had set her so she faced away from him as he lay down beside her. He draped one arm over her, wanting to pull her close but afraid of disturbing her rest. With his other hand, he reached out and softly buried his hand in her beautiful hair.

X

**Note: **The poem for this chapter:

**somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond**

by e. e. cummings

_somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond_

_any experience,your eyes have their silence:_

_in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,_

_or which i cannot touch because they are too near_

_your slightest look easily will unclose me_

_though i have closed myself as fingers,_

_you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens_

_(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose_

_or if your wish be to close me, i and_

_my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,_

_as when the heart of this flower imagines_

_the snow carefully everywhere descending;_

_nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals_

_the power of your intense fragility:whose texture_

_compels me with the color of its countries,_

_rendering death and forever with each breathing_

_(i do not know what it is about you that closes_

_and opens;only something in me understands_

_the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)_

_nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands_


	6. Sailing to Byzantium

Belle put the mask on the next day.

It felt odd in her hand. Weightless, it seemed as though it was woven of light and was insubstantial against her fingers. Yet, there was something there, smooth and almost silken. Taking a deep breath, she held it up against her mouth and felt it settle over her lips, her chin, and the lower part of her cheeks and jaw. It was liquid and cool, like placing her hand against the surface of water but not breaking the tension to plunge inside.

Carefully, she took a breath.

She could breathe in and out. When she nervously licked her lips, she found her tongue could go in and out.

The, Belle had an odd sensation, as though her skin were _drinking in_ the mask, as though her skin were dry earth and the mask was sinking in. The sense of something cool against her skin vanished. She took another breath, making sure she still could.

"Did—did it work?" she asked Rumplestiltskin.

"Oh, yes," he said, looking intently at her mouth. "It did."

She felt gingerly over her face. "You're sure? I can't feel anything."

"Very sure." His voice was deep and husky. Then, he tittered. In the high pitched tones she thought of as his imp voice, he said, "There is one way to test it, dearie." He laughed again.

Belle looked at him, hearing the pain under that laugh. She remembered the deep grief in his eyes when he told her about the curse. He had known then, she thought, that she would walk away from him. She remembered how he had reached out towards her, towards her heart, wanting to touch her yet not daring.

Softly, she put her hand against his chest, over his heart. Even through the thick leather of his vest and the heavy silk beneath, she could feel the warmth of it. He stood frozen, reptile eyes fixed on her, like a deer spotting wolves.

She had slept well. The exhaustion fogging her brain these past days, along with the pain and confusion of his confession, were gone. She knew what she had to do—and how to tell him.

Belle leaned in and pressed her mouth against his, closing her eyes. Rumplestiltskin made the same, startled murmur he had the first time they kissed.

For a moment, Belle could pretend this _was_ that kiss. Everything that had happened since was just a bad dream, the half-imagined fears flitting through her mind in the long gap between daring to reach out and acceptance.

Then, she felt his arms wrapping around her, drawing her close. The kiss deepened as he pulled her to him. She never wanted this moment to end. . . .

Bell pulled back, catching her breath. She knew what she had to do. "No, Rumple."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Of course," he said, letting go. "I'm sorry."

"Rumple, that's not—" She took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. "Not yet. I—I need you to answer questions." She sounded dry and matter-of-fact, like her father's record keeper, an old man with no sense of humor—not when he was working.

Rumplestiltskin looked at her wistfully. "The last time you asked questions, it ended badly."

"I think it will go better this time." She smiled without meaning to. It was the warmth and sadness in his eyes, she thought. It made her want to reach out to him. . . . _First things first,_ she reminded herself.

Rumple returned her smile. Belle wondered if hers looked as wickedly hungry. "Ask."

A deep breath. She needed to focus on her questions and not what that smile promised. "You asked me to marry you. But, there are no priests or officials left in this world. So, how . . . ?"

"Ah." He studied her uneasily. "When I was human, I lived in the Borderlands. Oaths are a serious matter there, even more than your word of honor in Avonlea and the Marchlands. Our marriages required oathes, publically sworn. If there were no witnesses, we preferred the oath-takers make a record of it. But, even that was not required."

The Borderlands. They were famous even now for the weight they gave their sworn word. Even now, an oath-breaker in the Borders was regarded as living dead. His own kin wouldn't acknowledge him, not if he was on death's door. In the days of the Ogre Wars, when promises to fight and aid were life or death, they had been even more important. It made sense that Rumplestiltskin, the Deal-Maker, came from those lands.

Though she understood oath-taking, too, she thought. She had sworn the most important oath of her life in her father's war room before the men of his council when she had promised to go with Rumplestiltskin—or the most important one till today.

"You recorded your oaths? How?"

"A written document would do, though most folk couldn't write or read. We had marks we could set in wood or stone. Sometimes they were baked in clay or cast in metal—even when the oaths were made before witnesses, it was traditional to make a memorial of some sort.

"I . . . thought to write out the marriage contract. And carve my oath in stone." He looked at her ruefully. "If I could give you what you deserved, I would marry you in the Basilica of Holy Sophia in the city of Eustáthios, the most beautiful church in all the world. Empresses and queens would be your attendants. Rulers from all four corners of the world would come just for the privilege of bowing down and offering you their gifts. . . ."

"That sounds like one of the three great temptations the Evil One offered. Do you know that story?"

"I wouldn't be offering. I'd be ordering. Not that it matters. There are no kings and queens for me to round up and make sure they treat you with proper respect.

"It's a poor second, but I would give you everything I can, every vow, to do everything in honor—as much honor as I have to give. You know the marble obelisk on the north grounds? I would have carved the record of our oaths into it. Then, I would have protected the stone with spells and poured gold into the words so they would endure untarnished forever." His voice was like a spell, painting images in her mind, but there was no magic beyond his words. And, he abruptly ended it. "Not that it matters," he said. "You had the right to change your mind."

The heat in his eyes was banked. Afraid he was misreading her signals? "I . . . don't think I have changed my mind," Belle said. "But, I have conditions," she added hastily. "My brideprice, if you will." Brideprice. That was the Borderlands custom, wasn't it? Instead of women bringing a dowry to the marriage, the husband gave her a brideprice when they were wed.

Rumplestiltskin nodded. The warmth was kindling again in his eyes, along with a glint of amusement. "I'll make a dealer out of you yet. Name it."

"Help the people under the curse."

The amusement turned to exasperation. "Belle, you to negotiate better than this. Do you have any idea what you could bargain for? You could ask for kingdoms—whole worlds, and the only request I'd make is if I couldn't give you more."

"It's what I want—what I _need. _Please, Rumple. Promise me."

He took her hand, bowing over it as he raised it to his mouth. "As you wish." That simple touch of his lips was like fire burning up her arm. His eyes swept over her. "It was also the tradition in the Borderlands that men and women wore their best clothes when they were married."

Belle looked down at her dress. This one was a little like her favorite blue dress from her days as Rumple's housekeeper, except that the blue was velvet and the white blouse was cloth-of-silver. The buttons were mother-of-pearl. But, it wasn't one of the elaborate ball gowns or court dresses. "There's one you'd prefer?" She'd grown up knowing about the importance of dressing well when receiving foreign dignitaries or for any formal occasion. Even during the war, she had seen the difference it made when she visited the recovering soldiers and refugees in the sickrooms if she changed from the plain clothes she wore in the infirmary. In work clothes, she was just one more of the desperate healers struggling to fight the losing battle against the Ogres. In a silk gown, she was a noblewoman, a symbol of something finer the Ogres had yet to crush. She was something that helped bring hope where there had been none.

But, she'd learned long ago that her sense of finery paled to nothing against Rumplestiltskin's.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is one I'd prefer," Rumplestiltskin said, looking far too pleased with himself. "Follow me."

He led Belle to one of the treasure rooms. There were robes and clothes from various lands. Belle recognized the elaborate, ermine trimmed robe of gold embroidered velvet used by a king of the Whitecliffs. There was an elaborate, jewel covered robe of yellow silk that matched the pictures she'd seen of the court robes of an emperor of the Middle Kingdom. There were crowns, jewels, and scepters. There was one suit of clothing so elaborately and wonderfully made, Belle stopped and gaped.

"Ah, you can see that one, can you?" Rumple said, smirking. "Not everyone can. Makes it awkward to wear to formal functions."

He led her to a shelf where there was a bolt of amethyst colored silk. The color was rich beyond anything Belle had ever seen, an impossible color like a living gem. In all her years standing beside her father as cargoes were inspected and merchants showed their wares, there had never been so much as a scrap of ribbon to match the yards and yards of fabric lying before her. She caught her breath, realizing what it might be. "That's not—that _can't_ be—"

"It is," Rumplestiltskin said smugly. "The imperial purple of the emperors of Byzantia."

Belle gaped. Imperial purple, a dye so rare and costly it was said to be at the root of the war between the Wolf Lords and the Children of the Phoenix, two of the greatest empires of their day. Even after they won, only the greatest of the Wolves' nobles were allowed to wear even a stripe of imperial purple in their robe. Byzantia was now its only source. Belle had read that, in the imperial castle in the Byzantian capital of Eustáthios, there was a great room hung with purple silk. It was where the empresses retired when it was time for them to give birth. Only a child "born to the purple," as the Byzantians called it, could ever inherit the throne. This might be the only other place in the world where this much imperial purple had been gathered in one place.

"The emperor and I had a deal, once," Rumplestiltskin said. "I think he expected me to demand his firstborn child, but I demanded the silk instead. I think he would have preferred giving up the child to giving up this. Or he did when the boy overthrew him."

"I—I can't wear that!" That bolt of cloth was worth more than all the Marchlands—more than the Marchlands, the Borderlands, and Avonlea combined.

"It won't _just_ be that," Rumple assured her. "I have something else I made. Now, where. . . ? Ah, here it is." There were several bolts of cloth-of-gold. Most of them were relatively plain, if such a term could be used for cloth woven from gold covered silk. This one, thicker than the others, was covered in gold embroidery, highlighted here and there with what could only be more imperial purple. "Yes," Rumple said. "This will do very well." He gestured towards Belle as though tossing something at her. The purple smoke of Rumple's magic engulfed her. When it passed, she looked down and saw she what she was wearing. Her dress was made from the imperial purple silk in the Byzantian style, lying over layers of underskirts made from the thinner, plainer cloth-of-gold. The heavily embroidered gold had been made into a sleeveless over-robe. The over-robe was something like a giant vest. A single clasp, made of gold, pearls, and amethysts fastened it below her breasts. It divided to show the purple to best advantage. Pearls and amethysts had also been sewn all over the cloth. From the wide skirt to the puffed sleeves (below the elbow, there were narrow sleeves of cloth of gold, fastened with pearl buttons), she thought Rumple had managed to hang as much of the purple cloth as he possibly could on one person.

"It's safe to look in mirrors, now," he said cryptically, pulling the cloth off of one and letting Belle see what else he had done. Her hair still hung down her back, but the curls had been interwoven with long chains of pearls. She saw she was wearing earrings, each made from a perfect pearl as large as her thumb, with a small complement of gold and more amethyst. A necklace of gold and squares of amethyst over and inch wide had been hung around her neck. At least, Belle supposed that was what they were. Given the many kings' ransoms going into the rest of her clothes, she suddenly doubted. "These gems," she said. "They are—they're not—"

"Wine sapphires," Rumple said. "From the Underkingdom. They grow there like plump grapes. The trick is getting out alive once you've plucked them. The pearls were gathered by the daughters of the sea king, in return for saving their youngest sister from the curse of the sea witch."

Belle stepped back from the mirror. That was how she caught a glimpse of her gold, pearl-covered slippers. "Rumple, this is too much. You _can't—_"

"One more thing," he said. He brought down a gold box from one of the shelves. Opening it, he brought out a long chain—an _impossibly_ long chain of pearls—_matching_ pearls, each perfectly round and the size of a chickpea. He fingered them, lost in thought. "Do you know where pearls come from, Belle?"

"In the Marchlands, we get freshwater pearls from mussels. Saltwater pearls come from different shellfish. I'm told oysters make the best ones. Though they rarely grow them." One in a thousand, one of her teachers had confidently said. She looked at the flawless, round gems. "Most are imperfect, oddly shaped, discolored. Ones like these are almost never found."

"Yes," Rumple said. "Though there are worlds where they grow pearls the way you grow grain. . . . Not that it matters. These are from our world. Most pearls are born as you described. But, some—rarest of all—are born from the tears of a mermaid.

"Most of them cannot weep. Even to save their sister, the sea king's daughters could not muster one tear among them. Sometimes, in moments of their greatest pain—often, they must be close to dying—a mermaid may shed a single, perfect tear.

"But, the sea king's youngest daughter had done something almost unheard of among her kind. She fell in love with a mortal. He would row out beyond the waterline at night to meet with her. They would talk for hours, him in the boat and her in the sea. An odd, hopeless love. Neither could live in the other's world. I suppose, in the end, they would have had to go their separate ways. But, the sea witch learned of it and nearly killed him. The young princess rescued him and got him to shore, but he was dying. She wept tears of true love. But, he was wounded by the sea witch's poisoned spear, not a curse. Even her love couldn't save him. Not directly.

"I happened by about then."

"And that was just chance, was it?"

"Of course not. Though I have to admit finding them there, perfectly ready to make a deal, was more than I'd hoped for. I offered to patch up the young lout in return for the tears she had shed. I also offered her an amulet that would protect her from the sea witch's magic when she returned to the water—the sea witch had no power on land or even in the tidewaters, but she would have attacked the girl when she tried to return to her home. In exchange, the princess gave me safe conduct in her father's realm—I didn't need it, but it made things easier—and gave me a letter to present to her father to give me a guide to the dark caves where the great squids live. . . . I had a certain need of them, though that's another story."

"But, something went wrong," Belle said. "Her sisters needed you to rescue her."

"Yes," Rumple grimaced. "After I left the princess—she was in no mood to leave her prince right away and I was in no mood to sit around waiting for two star-struck children to finish cooing over each other—the sea witch came to her in disguise, offering her a spell that would let her turn human.

"If you think my deals have catches on them, well, I never did one like _that_." He thought about it and amended. "Not quite as bad as that. The girl was going to die a very horrible death at the end of three days if she couldn't sing a certain song—mermaid magic is in their music—but she had sold her voice to become human. Fortunately, that was enough time for her sisters to gather the pearls. And there's more than one way to have a voice." He looked pleased at the memory.

Belle gestured to the pearls, not touching them. "It's still too much. This is all too much."

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "These things have very little value in this world, now, Belle. The hens I brought back from the village are worth more for the eggs they'll give us. If these have any other value, it's because of the memories they carry with them—and because, when things are set right, if I am ever called on to prove I acted honorably, a bridal gown worth half a kingdom and jewels that would awe a queen speak better on my behalf than a pile of rags." Belle was tempted to point out that she could have worn any of the other dresses he'd given her without anyone ever being able to accuse her of wearing rags, but she didn't.

"These pearls are more than that," Rumple said, running them slowly through his fingers. "They're made of grief and love—true love. They're the price that bought back the life of the one they were shed for when all seemed lost." His voice was soft, deepening in the way it sometimes did, in his most human moments. It wasn't the mermaid's tale of he was thinking of. "If I have any treasures in this castle that belong to you by right, Belle, it's these. You can refuse any other gift from me, but not these." He folded the chain then folded it again. Then, he fastened it into place around Belle's neck, using a clasp made of more gold, pearls, and amethysts or sapphires. He shifted it so the clasp hung in front—even double folded, the pearls reached below Belle's waist.

She fingered them. What kind of tears did the Dark One shed? Could he weep at all? Or did he have to buy tears from others, like a mermaid chance met along the shore?

"I'll wear them," Belle said. "In memory of your loss and your grief. When you thought I was dead."

Abashed, Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "I didn't mean—"

"No. But, you didn't have to." She smiled hopefully, searching his face for signs he understood. "Surely, I don't need to tell _you_ to negotiate better than this? You have your bargain. I will treasure them. Always. No matter what world we're in. Even if it's one where they grow pearls and call them weeds."

He smiled at that. "Then, the deal is struck." He glanced at his own clothes. "And I should dress as well." With a wave of his hand, he was wearing a suit of cloth-of-gold with diamond buttons. Belle looked at his silk shirt and beautifully tied cravat, both of them downy white.

"No imperial purple for you?"

He took her hand and kissed it again, the formal gesture of a grateful suppliant to a queen. "It is not my intent to outshine you." His eyes crinkled with mischief, and he added, "Not today."

They went to the Great Hall, where Rumple produced the wedding contract. Then, they argued.

Rumple had put in far too many clauses that worked to her advantage over his own. Belle would have had an easier time negotiating with a brick, and she felt more sympathy than she ever had for the people he had made deals with. In the end, after a great deal of browbeating, he made _some _concessions—including modifying the part that gave her the right to dissolve the union at any time under any circumstances and for any reason.

"Rumple—"

"You should be able to protect yourself," Rumple said. "Notice, I am still obligated, if you leave me, to protect you and provide for you." He looked at her like a puppy that had just brought its mistress a bone, she thought, as though she should be _pleased_ with the mess he was making for her.

"Provide for me? Rumple, it says here, if I leave you, I get the entire castle! I would not need you to provide for me!"

"The entire castle minus such magical objects and potions as may be dangerous, make you a target, or that I judge essential to my work. That's a very wide list of exceptions."

"Which you limit in the following twenty-seven clauses, besides having to reimburse me for them!"

"You need to be safe, Belle. If you ever want to leave, I don't want you staying because you're afraid of me."

"And _I_ don't want to have to spend the rest of my life afraid I'll say something when I'm upset and find you packed up and gone to the other side of the realm because you decide it means I've divorced you! This is supposed to be the most serious oath two people can enter into in their lifetimes. Telling me I can throw it down the castle privy anytime I get tired of it doesn't just undervalue _you_," Belle knew telling Rumple he was selling himself short wasn't an argument he'd listen to, after all, "It undervalues _me. _ What is my word worth if you make it so easy for me to throw it aside?"

They eventually worked that out. Rumplestiltskin still insisted on a lengthy list of ways he had to respect her decision if she did leave him (or told him to leave). No matter what the circumstances of the breakup, he was _never _to harm her and still give her any and all assistance she might require. But, at least she couldn't dissolve their marriage with a snap of her fingers or a misspoken, angry word. She also insisted on a few clauses allowing _him_ to protect himself from _her_.

"I hardly need those," Rumplestiltskin protested.

"With the list of obligations you've given yourself to me, you certainly _do._" It was true. As the philosopher Rubrus had pointed out, the social contract was kept when the people with power—in this case, that would be her—could be trusted to keep their obligations to the people without power—which, under this contract, was certainly Rumplestiltskin. "Suppose I'm under a spell or just run mad one day? If someone's trying to hurt you through me, you have a right to defend yourself."

"You're not—"

"I'm very close to it already. Put. It. In."

It took a large part of the day but, in the end, they came up with something they could both sign. Belle, worn out from arguing, was still feeling triumphant as she put her name down with a flourish.

"You're looking tired," Rumplestiltskin said. "I can just take us to the obelisk. You don't need to walk—"

"I'll walk," Belle growled. "Every step of the way."

She suspected she was just being spiteful at that point, but the gardens revived her. Being outside always did. The sky, she noticed, was a perfect blue when it had been cloudy nearly every day since she returned to Rumple's castle. It was also warmer than it should be this time of year. Rumple was looking pleased with himself again.

The gardens, she thought, were beautiful despite the signs of autumn. They passed a pond where the ducks and geese Rumple had rescued from the deserted village were happily swimming past. In the north grounds, they reached a small enclosure, hidden behind a trellis entwined with white roses. Behind a small gate, half-hidden by roses, there were stone steps leading down. Within, there was a perfectly round, azure pool of water that, at night, would reflect the moon and stars like a mirror. On this side, the trellis was covered with roses of blue and gold. The grass, shaded by the high vines, seemed more blue than green. It was like standing in the heart of a sapphire.

Rumple looked at the roses as they went past them, and bowed to her with a flourish, a bouquet of blue, white, and gold roses in his hand. A single, red rose crowned the top of the arrangement. "I almost forgot," he said. "A bride should have flowers for her wedding."

Belle smiled, accepting them, inhaling their scent. She wondered if the red rose was the same one Rumple had given her long ago. That one had stayed fresh and blooming her entire time at the castle.

They went around the small walk of gold-toned stones surrounding the pool till they reached the obelisk. It was marbled with white, blue, and black. Here and there, streaks of gold ran through it.

"Where did you get it?" Belle asked. Everything he had picked today had history and meaning to him. She was sure the obelisk was the same.

"It was a gift, oddly enough," Rumple told her, studying it. People didn't _give_ the Dark One gifts, they sold him treasures—grudgingly, often as not—in desperate trades. "Remember the princess I told you of? The one who traded me the winter garden? She married the prince of the castle she worked at."

"What? How did that happen?" But was a gardener marrying a prince any less likely that the housekeeper marrying the Dark One?

Rumplestiltskin waved this aside as tediously boring. "There'd been a war, she'd saved his life. The usual sort of thing. Then, they day of her wedding, she sent me this. Her people carved records of important events into stone as well. She thought I might need it someday."

"She was right."

"Indeed." Rumplestiltskin brought out a ring. It was gold with an oval sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg. "Belle, I promise to be a good and faithful husband to you. If you'll have me."

"I will."

He took her hand and slipped the ring onto her finger. Belle closed her fingers tight around his. "Rumplestiltskin, I promise to be a good and faithful wife. If you'll have me. Though I don't have a ring."

"What? Oh, of course, you do." He snapped his fingers and a ring was suddenly between them. It was also a sapphire set in gold, a round one only slightly larger than the one he'd given her.

Belle hesitated before putting it on his hand. "Is there a story behind these gems?"

"A long one. Don't worry. There's no evil in them—none. But yours carries every protection magic can make. You should wear it always."

"I will."

Then, Rumplestiltskin turned to the obelisk, lifting his hand. "I, Rumplestiltskin take Belle, daughter of Maurice, Lord of the Marchlands, and of his wife, Emelie, daughter of Roland, son of Katherine, Queen of the United Kingdoms, as my legally and lawfully wedded wife, on this day. . . ." As he spoke, the words appeared in the stone, words carved four inches deep. Something like fire traced after them, and she realized it was gold filling the gaps.

When he was finished. He lowered his hand. "Your turn. And your last chance to hedge off."

Belle ignored that, lifting her hand as though she had every confidence a stone would listen to what she had to say. "I, Belle, daughter of Maurice, Lord of the Marchlands, and of his wife, Emelie, daughter of Roland, son of Katherine, Queen of the United Kingdoms, take Rumplestiltskin—" He hadn't used titles for himself when he'd spoken his oath, and Belle suspected "Dark One" was an ill-omened name to mark a wedding with, "—Savior of the Marchlands, Preserver of the Remnant of Avonlea, Weaver, Spinner, and Deal-Maker, as my legally and lawfully wedded husband, on this day. . . ." She tried not to act surprised as the words carved themselves into the stone.

"Savior and preserver?" Rumple asked when she was done.

"I'm sure you have other titles. But, the stone is only so big."

Rumplestiltskin laughed and, then, he kissed her. He held and kissed her again and again. First, he kissed her on her mouth. Then, on the hollow of her throat. His lips were darting lower and his hand was working at the clasp of the golden over-vest when he pulled himself back with a groan. "I'm—sorry," he gasped. Belle gave a whine of protest. "Not—like this," he said. "Not here." He buried his hands in her hair even as pushed himself back from her. Voice husky, he said, "You deserve everything to be perfect. And you deserve a man. Not a monster."

"You're not a monster."

"No. I won't be. Not tonight. Not to you."

Amethyst smoke surrounded them, and they were back in her room in the castle. Maybe the magic did something to cool his blood. Or, given the way he looked at her bed, perhaps this had suddenly become very, frighteningly _real_.

_I didn't hedge off when gave me the chance,_ Belle thought. _And I am not offering the chance to you._ After all her arguments over fairness in the marriage contract, that struck her as disgustingly hypocritical—and, for once, hypocrisy didn't bother her in the least.

"Shall I . . . help you out of that dress, Belle?"

She looked at the gown, gold he had spun himself, jeweled silk taken in place of an emperor's child, pearls gathered to save a maiden's life. There was meaning in every thread of it. But, she thought there was one garment hidden in this room that had more meaning. To her, at least.

"Could you help me change, first? With—with magic, I mean? I—" Belle swallowed. There were some things that lessons in rhetoric and public speaking completely forgot to cover. And there were some things she couldn't do herself. The dress didn't seem to have any fastenings. It wouldn't surprise her if she'd been sewn into it, and she knew she wasn't getting out of it without Rumplestiltskin's help.

But, that wasn't how she wanted her first time with Rumplestiltskin to start. "There's . . . something else I should be wearing instead when you . . . I . . . when we do this tonight."

It was not something he'd expected her to say (Belle had a moment's panic, had she sounded foolish? _Perverse? _ But, this mattered. Tonight of all nights, it mattered). Rumplestiltskin bowed like a courtier. "Whatever my lady wishes."

"Your shirt. The one you made into a nightgown for me the night you saved me. That's what I want to be wearing."

His eyes really had the most wonderful way of lighting up, Belle thought. She felt suddenly cooler. He'd done it without smoke, this time. Belle looked down and saw the soft, dark gold folds.

"Thank you," she whispered.

And, now, she knew what a hungry smile on Rumplestiltskin _really_ looked like. "It's no matter," he said, drawing her close. "Though I should warn you, I don't think you should wear it long."

**Note: **This chapter is likely to be re-edited soon, but I wanted to get it up before the weekend was over. If you notice any unclear bits, typos, or other problems, please, let me know.


	7. The Dear and Wished for Years,

Rumplestiltskin held Belle as she slept, content to watch her with just human eyes as the sun made its way over the windowsill. At first, she was just a faint outline in the dark. Then, slowly, the first hints of gray light crept over her in the false dawn. The blankets around her were like blue shadows. The first glimmer of pink was in her cheek as a ray of true sunlight hit her. Her hair cloaked her in a halo, reflecting the burning, red gold of the light behind him. As the light grew, she began to glow with it. Or so it seemed to him. She was as pale and luminously bright as the pearls she had worn round her neck yesterday, a sunrise in and of herself.

But, what took his breath away was the look on her face, safe and contented. Even in her sleep, there was a small smile playing about her lips. He had waited since she fell asleep in his arms for the nightmares that had plagued her since he'd rescued her, but they hadn't come. _They hadn't come._

When her eyes flickered open at last, she looked at him lying beside her. It struck him how unfair it was. _She _was the first thing he had seen in dawning light. But, the first thing she got to see was _him, _an ugly, ancient imp with rot colored fangs, snake eyes, and lizard skin.

But, when she looked at him, her small smile spread into one as large and radiant as the morning outside.

Then, she had leaned in and kissed him, and he found other things to think about.

X

Belle's days with Rumplestiltskin began to fall into a pattern. Rumplestiltskin spent much of his time working, pouring through books, studying charts, and strange images in crystal bowls or shards of glass. Once, she found him looking at what seemed a very ordinary farm beneath a harvest moon—but with constellations in the sky Belle had never seen. He mixed potions, some magical, some not, and outlined spell after spell. Then, he would file away whatever he had done and start all over again.

Belle helped, reading through books, looking for certain words or phrases—or anything that sounded like it might be useful. "Trust your intuition, dearie, if it tells you something is important," he told her. "It's right more often than you know."

They discussed their findings at length. There was a logic to magic, sometimes frightening or twisted, but always there. It frightened Belle a little that she was beginning to understand it. But, she already understood things just as disturbing, what a battle ax could do to a man or the eerie silences of men waiting for Ogres to attack.

And there were other parts to it, too. Sometimes humorous. Sometimes even beautiful.

When she wasn't helping Rumple find a solution, Belle spent time walking in the gardens, sometimes with him—even Rumplestiltskin couldn't stay locked up in his workroom forever—and sometimes with the giant dogs. They were playful as puppies, though they never pulled puppyish tricks, like jumping up and down on her, or anything that might have hurt her. She noticed Rumplestiltskin seemed easier letting her out of her sight now she had them—and now she wore the wedding ring he had given her, the one he said was loaded down with every protective spell known, "And several that aren't. Those were trickier."

The livestock he'd mentioned had been housed near what would have been the castle's servants quarters. If it had ever had servants, besides her. She'd never lived there. Rumple claimed to never see the point in waiting the extra time it would take for her to walk over when summoned. Or that's what he'd said when he'd first given her a room in the main part of the castle, one fit for a queen.

She never caught Rumplestiltskin paying any attention to the animals, but the barns were always mucked out when she checked on them and the chicken coops were returned to their glory days. Before, they'd been fit for nothing but kindling.

She spent some of her time reading books, ones that had nothing to do with traveling worlds, and some working in the kitchens—Rumple had proven he could put meals together with no help from her, but that was no reason to let him take over what had been her territory. They ate their meals together—breakfast was never a problem, but Belle sometimes had to go hunting for him when he was caught up in a project. When that happened, she would find him—usually in his workroom—and either drag him to the table or bring up a tray and wait as long as it took for him to notice she was there.

He was becoming more like his old self. Since their wedding day, when he had conjured that almost blinding suit of gold (and looked so pleased as she gaped at it), he seemed to have rediscovered his love of clothes. He had dressed as finely as ever since the day she had woken up and found him half-naked beside her. But, he had seemed like someone saying words in a language he had forgotten, going through the steps but finding no meaning in them. Now, she could see him looking pleased with himself as he straightened a cravat or flicked a tiny fleck of gold dust from a sleeve.

For her part, Belle's nightmares had grown fewer and, when they did strike, less severe. If they did come, Rumplestiltskin woke her before they became unbearable and held her till the fear subsided and she could bear to sleep again.

He had explained to her that they had not completely escaped the curse.

He had been going through notes, discussing some of the less obvious aspects of it. "This land is still linked to the new one," he said. "Some things will change, some won't. Plants will grow and age the way the always do, but the animals—some of them—are frozen in time. The same way we are."

She looked at him, not sure she'd heard right. 'The same way we are'? "What do you mean?"

"We're not aging. The curse stopped time for us." He said it so matter-of-factly. She just stared at him, sure she couldn't be understanding.

So, Rumplestiltskin had kindly, patiently explained.

Her body would steal heal from any injuries, the way it normally did. Other things would also go on as always. Her hair would grow, her nails would need to be trimmed, and so on. In other ways, she was frozen in time. She could see it best in the animals, he added. Of the livestock, creatures that lived "fast lives," as he called it, would grow and mature. A chick hatched the day the curse started would grow to a year old adult, then stop. The slower paced beasts, like the cows and donkeys, were already frozen.

"We had beef for dinner last night," Belle said blankly.

Rumplestiltskin had smiled. "I know some small tricks for keeping the larder full, dearie, ones that have nothing to do with using the farm animals," he assured her. "Don't worry, we won't starve before the end of the curse, whatever happens. And the cows can stay where they are. But. . . ." he paused. "You do realize . . . there won't be any calves born till the curse ends? And that holds for humans as well."

Belle wasn't used to staring dumbly so much during a conversation.

Rumple fidgeted. "I mean, you won't—we can't—there's no possibility of children. Not till the curse ends."

Belle let that sink in. She thought of her parents, who had waited for years to have a child. And no one had told them how long they would have to wait.

Of course, they hadn't had to wait twenty-eight years, either.

It had been a shock. She had watched the cows in the pasture the next day. No new calves. Not for twenty-eight years. And these calves would continue as they were. For twenty-eight years.

She'd asked Rumplestiltskin further questions about what this might do to the world. The monsters, he expected, would increase. He outlined why the Ogres and chimeras and other creatures would be least effected. "But, they'll also bear the brunt of it if and when the people return."

"If?" Belle asked, exasperated. She was glad Rumple wasn't teaching her magic. Just the theory gave her a headache.

"When the curse is broken, the barrier between the town and the world they're in will be weakened. Travel between the two will be possible. It won't automatically return them to our world, but it will make it _possible_ to return." He hesitated. "They'll probably figure it out. Eventually. Even without anyone showing them how. Then, the monsters will be hardest hit. There are . . . protections for other creatures. Things that are rare—things that may even seem to have died out—will begin to recover.

"It wouldn't be a problem at all," he added. "Except that we're here."

"At least, no one else is," Belle said.

He nodded. "There's that. And we have the castle and magic to protect us. And we're not staying here. Not any longer than we have to.

"The worlds are linked, now. It's only a matter of time before I figure out how to get us across. Then, our only problem will be putting up with Regina."

Belle smiled wanly. "There is that."

It was some time later when Belle was walking along the ramparts that things changed again. She'd managed to put what Rumple had told her about time out of her head. Instead, she was thinking over again what he'd taught her about spells and how the odd elements balanced each other. Their logic was emotional, balances of loss and desire. There was one that claimed to be a love spell that was horrifying.

"It's not a love spell," Rumplestiltskin had said, when she asked him about it. His eyes had glinted angrily as he looked over the entry in the book. "It's a curse. The curse of the empty-hearted. That's what you make yourself if you use it." His lips pulled back, like wolf sighting an enemy. "It uses murder and hate to control the person you give it to, to make them think they love you." He stared at the page as though thinking of tearing it out and feeding it to the fire.

Belle wasn't sure what to make of that look. There was something he hated about this spell, something personal. "Have you ever seen it used?" she asked. "Or . . . did anyone want you to make it for them?"

"Oh, there've been plenty who wanted it. Or thought they did. It usually disappoints." He seemed to be looking inward, brooding over something only he could see. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. "The one who was Dark One before me, he made it for a woman named Milha. She gave it to a pirate she'd fallen in love with." He scowled. "She had a husband. And a child. But, she would go to the taverns to meet men and spend her evenings drinking with them. The pirate's name was Jones. He was no great treasure, either. He kidnapped her the next day. Her husband, a weaver, went to the ship and begged Jones to give her back. Jones told the man he meant to have her. And let his crew have her. Then, he threw down a sword at the man's feet and told him he would duel him for her."

Belle flinched. Like any noblewoman, she knew about sword fighting. She'd watched practices in the training yard and had seen duels—usually, just the nonlethal competitions with blunt swords. But, there had been real ones. "He was untrained?"

"Untrained and lame."

Belle stepped back, shocked. She knew how vicious fighting could become. She'd _seen_ what wars did to men. But, even so, there were codes and laws. Especially for duels. As a cynical, old veteran had once told her, "Some men are honorable. They keep the code because it's in their hearts. Some men aren't. But, they keep the code so long as anyone's watching. Because they know they can't fight alongside men who don't trust them."

Someone who would even offer to duel a lame man was beneath contempt—worse, even, than a man who kidnapped a woman to service an entire crew. And this crew was made of men who would stand by and watch him do both these things—who would _help _him do these things.

"He'd have been slaughtered."

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin shrugged, his moment of anger gone. "I suppose he knew that. At any rate, he didn't pick up the sword, and Jones let him live."

"But, the old Dark One had an interest in the matter. He'd had a complex plan going that I had to tidy up after when I inherited the mantel. I think the woman was just his contingency. He used the child. . . . Well, it doesn't matter, now. Just that my predecessor went to the woman and offered her a choice. He could free her to return to her husband or he could give her a drink that would make Jones obsessed with her. Forever.

"She chose the potion."

The darker the curse, the darker the balance seemed to be. That struck Belle as wrong. Somehow, somewhere, it seemed there should be a balance of light, life against death, hope against darkness. She wondered if it was the nature of dark magic—Rumple's magic—or if it could be pushed a different way.

She was ruminating possibilities when she saw something out of the corner of her eye on the mountains. It was in the ruined area, beyond the land Rumple had protected. Belle could make out oxen, a wagon along the old road. At first, she thought that, somehow, the beasts had been trapped when their masters were taken by the curse and had been wandering, unable to get loose of the yoke ever since. Then, she made out tiny figures around them.

People.

There were _people_ on the mountain, only a few miles from the castle.

And they were trying to reach an outcropping of rock, a protected spot just a few yards away. _Racing_ to it. Some of them were pulling something, a person out of the wagon, while the others raced ahead. Wounded, Belle thought, or ill. They unyoked the oxen, then tipped over the wagon so it made a barrier in the road. The person from the wagon was hauled up behind the one rider in the group.

While this had been going on, most of the party made it to the rocks. _A place to defend themselves, _Belle realized. _To make a last stand._

Shadows came into view, huge forms rounding the curve of the mountain. Ogres.

Belle turned and ran for the workroom, screaming Rumplestiltskin's name.

X

This chapter's title comes from Elizabeth Barret Browing's Sonnets from the Portugeuse 1

_I thought once how Theocritus had sung_

_Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years,_

_Who each one in a gracious hand appears_

_To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:_

_And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,_

_I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,_

_The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,_

_Those of my own life, who by turns had flung_

_A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,_

_So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move_

_Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair,_

_And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, ..._

_Guess now who holds thee?'—Death,' I said. But there,_

_The silver answer rang ... Not Death, but Love.'_


	8. Child Roland to the Dark Tower Came

Rumplestiltskin heard Belle scream his name.

His heart stopped. He conjured himself to her side, still holding the book he'd been reading.

They were on the parapets, one of the places Belle liked to walk. Belle, racing for his workroom, crashed into him as he appeared in front of her. He dropped the book and caught her in his arms, looking around for what was attacking her.

"There!" she said, pointing to the mountains. "Ogres! There!"

Panicked, but succinct. Rumplestiltskin 's heart began to calm. He'd expected monsters to show sooner or later. The castle had its own protections against them, not that that would stop him from slaughtering any that came close enough to draw his attention and upset Belle.

But, it wasn't just Ogres.

"People," Belle said. "You have to help them, Rumplestiltskin . You _have_ to."

There was a corner of Rumplestiltskin 's mind that was already arguing. He didn't _have_ to do anything. But, this was Belle. And those were Ogres. And there was a mystery, people who shouldn't even be there, fleeing for their lives.

"Take the hounds," he said. "Go to my workroom and close the door. Don't come out till I come for you. I'll take care of this. Go!"

Belle nodded, and took off running, Damon and Pythias at her heels. Rumplestiltskin sent himself to the little band of refugees.

They were setting up for a valiant, last stand at the rocks the villagers had called the Fairy Fort, not that fairies had anything to do with it. It was an outcropping of stone that formed a more or less decent defense, but was too high to benefit anyone but goat herders and the occasional traveler. The villagers had tales claiming fairies or wizards or Rumplestiltskin himself had put them there, but it was just a natural pile of rocks.

Most of the small group had made it to the rocks already. Not that it would help them. Rumplestiltskin had seen Ogres toss aside stones ten times their size. All they'd done was buy themselves some time. It was all the wagon, pushed down to block the road, did. The Ogres crawled over it quickly enough.

He noticed an empty quiver tossed aside near the wagon. Now would be a good time to start shooting if any of this little group had arrows left, but he supposed they didn't—nor spears nor slings nor anything else good at shooting at over a distance.

The stragglers still trying to make it up to the rocks were made up of a couple armed men and two riders on one horse, only one of them armored. The other was hidden under a weather stained cloak. The lead Ogre was already catching up to the pair on the horse, reaching for them. It plucked the second rider right off the back of the mount. She screamed as its hands closed around her.

A woman, Rumplestiltskin saw, her stomach large and distended with the child growing inside her. She pulled out a knife, driving it into the Ogre's hand.

Brave, but ineffective, Rumplestiltskin thought. She'd have been better off waiting till it pulled her closer and aiming for its vulnerable spot, the eyes.

That was where Rumplestiltskin aimed as he conjured a spear into his hand. He threw it with far more force than a mortal his size would have—and with far better aim. It landed with a satisfying thunk. The Ogre reached up, clawing at the spear shaft , before tumbling over.

Well, that was easy.

Rumplestiltskin appeared more or less directly under the woman, catching her as the Ogre dropped her

He put her down. "Wait here, dearie. I'll handle this."

The woman staggered and slumped to the ground, her hood falling back. But, Rumplestiltskin was already focusing on the remaining Ogres.

Still, he caught a glimpse of red-brown hair as he conjured a fireball in his hand.

The same color as Belle's.

No time to think on it. He threw the ball at the Ogre. He smiled as it made contact, cascading over the creature, covering it in a blanket of flame. The survivor stopped, startled by the screams and the smell of burning flesh.

Did it know its companions were dying? Some Ogres could speak. Most couldn't. But, the ones who could were never terribly insightful. The explanations they gave for what they did never got much beyond, "Hungry," or "Bored."

He brought up another ball of fire as a giant, black dog leapt on the Ogre from behind, bringing it down.

Ah, that explained some things. Almost.

"Gaston!" Rumplestiltskin yelled. "Get out of the way!"

The dog started, looking over at him. The Ogre took advantage of his distraction to hit him with its club, knocking him aside.

Oh, wonderful. But, he was out of the way. Rumplestiltskin threw the fireball. Gaston, looking slightly dazed, pulled himself up. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning Ogre.

Rumplestiltskin turned his attention to the woman crouched down beside him. She was shaking in pain. And he knew her.

Quickly, he extended his magical senses. It wasn't the child. There was trouble there, but the child wasn't coming. No, the damage was along her legs.

She wasn't supposed to be here, he thought. She was supposed to be behind a barrier of magic thorns, ones that would even have protected her from Regina's curse. And Philip wasn't supposed to be in this world at all.

But, if Philip _had _ found a way past the thorns, if he _had_ been there when the curse was cast, he would have been protected as well. Along with anyone else he brought with him. Although _why_ Philip would bring a small band of refugees on a quest to save his so-called true love was a mystery beyond even Rumplestiltskin's powers of deduction.

Not that it mattered at the moment. He had more immediate problems to deal with. "Aurora, Princess," he said gently. "Lie down. Let me see your injuries."

Aurora stared at him dumbly, her face a white mask of pain, but she did let him help her lay back on the path. He conjured a small pillow while he was at it and slipped it under her head. She winced while he helped her straighten out her legs but, typical of Aurora, didn't cry out from the pain.

The rider came up to him, sword drawn. "Lord Wizard," Mulan said, obviously feeling that some kind of politeness was called for and that the names she'd used in the past—'Imp,' 'Beast,' and 'Rumplestiltskin'—especially the latter, _especially _the way she'd said it—weren't up to it. "What are you doing to the princess?"

"Checking her wounds." He gave Mulan an innocent-suggestive look. "Why what did you think?" The skirt of Aurora's dress was stained with dirt and puss. He moved it back carefully. It stuck in places where the puss had dried against the cloth and skin. Rumplestiltskin hissed when he saw her wounds. "What happened to her?"

There were some bandages lower down, but they hadn't been changed, not for days. Most of her legs were bare so he could see the burns criss-crossing them. Some had scabbed over. Most were oozing puss. Several were infected.

He didn't even bother trying to remove the bandages by hand, just waved them away. These were older burns. They'd been cleaned before being wrapped, and there'd been some healing. But, that was a long time ago. They were festering, now, and the smell was foul.

Gaston padded up beside him and made a wimpering noise. Or that's what it would have sounded like to Mulan.

_The Ogres picked up our trail, _he said. _We haven't had time to check her._

"Are there any more Ogres following you? Or any monsters?" Rumplestiltskin asked.

Gaston shook his head. _I led them off._

Which explained why he'd been coming up behind them. These three were the only ones not to fall for whatever tricks he'd used to lure the others away. Only he hadn't just led them. Rumplestiltskin smelled Ogre blood on him, and not just the one he'd attacked here.

Sensible. As Rumplestiltskin well knew, killing a few Ogres where the others could hear _was_ one of the best ways to get the rest to follow you.

"Good for you." He turned his attention to Aurora, his voice becoming gentler. "Princess, can you tell me how you got these burns?"

Aurora nodded, white lipped. But, lucid. Quite an accomplishment at this point. "Since I woke. I have nightmares. I—I'm trapped in fire." She winced as Rumplestiltskin pulled the skirt down over her legs and the fabric brushed against her wounds. She went on, the words coming in breaks and starts. "When I'm burned in my sleep. The burns are there. When I wake."

"On your legs? Not anywhere else?"

She shook her head. "I can't move. In that place. They—they burn upwards."

The bandages had been on her feet and shins. Judging by the new burns, the flames must be rising in each dream. "All right, Aurora, I'm going to fix this. But, you need to stay awake. Do you understand? You mustn't fall asleep. It's dangerous for you—and your child."

He turned back to Mulan. "Where's Philip? He's the only one who could have woken her. I need him for this." Philip, who was even more heroically stupid than Gaston.

Mulan's face turned stony. Behind him, Gaston gave a wordless whine.

"Philip's dead," Mulan told him. "He died fighting Ogres three days ago."

Rumplestiltskin went still. "I'm sorry." He turned back to Aurora and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, Princess. He was a good man." A good man Aurora had cared enough for to accept Maleficent's curse—and to make a deal with Rumplestiltskin to keep Philip from ever finding out what she felt for him wasn't true love.

"Did you know?" Mulan asked. "Did you set it up so Philip would die?"

Oh, that would have been clever of him, wouldn't it? Kill the boy, keep the deal. Except he hadn't. Rumplestiltskin barred his teeth at the warrior. "If I'd wanted the princeling dead, Fa_ Syaumei_, I'd have done it myself. I foresaw this curse on the land, but the protection I put around Aurora's castle should have shielded her till it passed—which, before you ask, will be a long time from now. Apparently, I underestimated the prince's . . ." Rumplestiltskin thought of and discarded several words that weren't fit to say in front of the prince's grieving widow—and Aurora was grieving. She had loved Philip even if it hadn't been been the love she thought he deserved. ". . . determination."

He glanced at Gaston. "I take it you were coming to my castle for help. Did you ever think to just call me?"

_I _did_ call you, _Gaston said. _Before the curse. When you were imprisoned. You couldn't answer._

Oh, yes. That.

"We found your cell," Mulan said. "Gaston thought it might have protected you from the curse. We thought you must be one of the taken when we saw it empty."

"Then why come to my castle?"

"We needed a defensible place. We thought this might do."

_The fortresses in the rest of the land are gone or torn apart, _Gaston added. _I thought yours would still be standing, if any were. If not, if we'd made it up here without pursuers, it's a defensible area. If we'd had time to block the pass, get some defenses in place, it would be safe. Safer._

"Hmph." He didn't like admitting Gaston hadn't been an idiot. This time.

Rumplestiltskin looked at the rest of the small band, still crouching behind their rocks, not trusting the monster that had found them. How very wise. "I'll make you a deal," he said. "You can come to my castle. I'll open the servants' wing for you. But, there are certain conditions. You will behave yourselves as proper guests. No conspiring against me or mine and no attempting to harm us. You will also let me check your party for any spells or other signs of magic, dark or light. If I judge something harmless, you can keep it. If I judge it dangerous, you leave it behind—and no whining if I decide to destroy it. In return, you have my protection. And food and shelter."

"What if something you judge dangerous is a person?"

"Then they can become part of the food. Or hadn't you noticed the shortage of fresh meat?" He laughed at the look on Mulan's face. "That was just a quip, dearie. Not serious." Mulan didn't look amused. Rumplestiltskin sighed. He wanted Belle. "It depends." He glanced over the small group of refugees. "Perhaps the evil queen has collected the heart of someone here. If so, the damage is done. That person gets to live, just not set foot in my home. Perhaps someone here is a demon disguised as something human. If that's so, I get to kill it. And you don't get to complain. But, I will try to convince you it's a demon first. Do we have a deal?"

"What if we don't accept?"

"Then, you get to leave-any of you who aren't under a spell, aren't plotting against me, aren't a demon, and aren't my enemy, that is. The others, I'll deal with as I see fit."

Mulan's eyes flashed as she opened her mouth to protest. Oh, good, the little warrior had no cards to play and she was still going to argue.

"We accept," Aurora said. Mulan stared at her, and even Gaston looked a bit uneasy. But, Aurora went on. "Between the Ogres—and Rumplestiltskin—I trust Rumplestiltskin," she told them. Apparently, all the hours she spent practicing public speaking paid off. Despite gritting her teeth against the pain and gasping for breath, she sounded every inch the ruler.

"I'm touched," Rumplestiltskin said.

Aurora looked at him. Just speaking had costing her. Did she really trust him? Or was that just fever and injuries clouding her mind?

As if she'd heard is thoughts, Aurora said, "You have honor, Rumplestiltskin. It may be your own kind, but you have it. I'll trust in you." She thought that over. "For now."

Rumplestiltskin grinned. Aurora didn't have Belle's clear, sharp mind, but she had her own kind of intelligence. "Deal, Princess."

He flicked his wrist. Small orbs of light appeared, darting around the band. People tried to back away as the orbs came at them, not that it worked. The lights flew at people, passed through them, then went in search of someone they hadn't hit. When they were done, they came to Rumplestiltskin, who caught them in his hand, absorbing the light back into him along with the information they brought.

"Looks good," he said, gave a giggle and snapped his fingers. Purple mist gathered around them—

And they were in the kitchen of the servants wing.

"There's food in the pantry," Rumplestiltskin said. "Feel free to eat anything. None of it's enchanted. I'm pretty sure." A small bed appeared against one of the walls, piled high at one end with pillows. He scooped up Aurora from where she was lying on the floor, wrapping a small spell around her wounds to keep the contact from causing her more pain. Then, he carried her over to the bed and put her down in it. The pillows helped prop her up, sitting instead of lying down.

"Someone, brew tea. It's in the cupboard over there. She mustn't fall asleep. Do you understand? Keep her awake till I return. It won't be long." He hesitated, looking at Gaston. This was going to be awkward. A coward—or a sensible man—would just try to keep the two from ever meeting. It wasn't as if it would be hard, not in a castle this size.

But, Belle had seen the strangers. She would have seen Rumple rescuing them and transporting them away from the road. He probably wouldn't convince her they had just wandered off without stopping to visit.

Besides, he was trying not to be a coward anymore.

He might as well just get this out of the way. At least, it would be funny. That was something. "I need to get some medicines for your princess. And my wife. She'll be helping me." He looked at each of them. There were the frightened men and women, who may have had their own suspicions why the Dark One had brought them to his larder, despite his promises. Then, he looked the tired children, who might have been frightened if they hadn't been pushed somewhere beyond fear and exhaustion. He couldn't do anything about the fear. Maybe after they'd had some food and rest—maybe after they'd met Belle. She had that effect on people. But, for now, he only kept his directions simple. "You will respect her as the lady of this castle. _No one_ will offer her any insult."

And he didn't even add a threat. After all, they were guests.

_Wife?_ Gaston said. _You have a _wife?

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin said. "You know her. It seems I wasted my time on that mission I sent you on. There was nothing to avenge."

There. Even Gaston ought to be able to work that out. Eventually.

Rumplestiltskin vanished and got Belle.

**Note:** Rumple's past with characters appearing in this chapter is covered in the stories

s/9117427/1/A-Rose-for-Vengeance

and

s/9228142/1/Briars-and-Roses

The poem for this chapter is Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. I won't quote the whole thing here, but it starts with a scene where a malicious, lame imp man gives the hero directions to the Dark Castle Tower. Obviously, you shouldn't trust creepy imps when they show up to give you help like that (smiles innocently). But, what choice does the hero have?

Funny how no one ever wonders how the imp feels about these people who are always showing up asking for directions when he'd rather be getting some work done or (even better) spending the day with his wife.

**Syaumei**: This is Yale spelling for Mandarin (I don't speak Mandarin, I just mutilate it a lot). That's a word meaning "miss." Long story, but I knew someone who could make that world sound _really_ condescending, which is how Rumple says it.


	9. Miles to Go

Rumplestiltskin watched the expressions passing over Belle's face as they appeared in the kitchen. The refugees had spread themselves out. The children and some of the adults were sitting at the long table, eating cold foods. Cheese, bread, apples, butter and jam were all laid out. Over at the stove, eggs were being cooked. Potatoes and onions were being cut up and added to soup pots.

All of the meat—sausages, ham, and bacon—were untouched. Well, Belle couldn't say he hadn't tried. Short of dragging in a pig and slaughtering it in front of them, he didn't see any way to convince his guests its origins were exactly what they should be—and, even then, perhaps they would need to see the pig born and reared to full pig-hood to be sure it had never been anything _but_ a pig.

The moment Belle and Rumplestiltskin appeared, everyone went still, like field mice sensing as the hawk's shadow passes over them.

Belle didn't seem to notice. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them. _People! _He could almost hear her thinking. _We're not alone! There are _people!

Yet, there was also a slight tension to her. Not fear, he thought. That she was in his company, the lady of the Dark One's castle, and what that might mean to these people never crossed her mind. No, he thought it was simply that it had been so long since Belle was in a room with other human beings, much less a crowd of them. Not counting the queen's guards. And himself, he supposed, since Belle at least _thought _of him as a man.

_Not_ counting Regina. He might not completely deny his own humanity, but lines had to be drawn somewhere.

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. "This is my wife, the Lady Belle," he said. He had thought of different titles he might add to that, the Dark Lady, Chatelaine of the Dark Castle and Mistress of all the lands roundabout. He might declare her a queen or an empress, if he wanted. It was the least she deserved, and there was hardly anyone to argue if he declared the whole world as hers.

But, he kept it simple. They either understood she was his _wife—_not to be insulted, not to be harmed, not to be treated with the least disrespect—or they were too suicidally stupid to save.

"She's come to attend her kinswoman, Aurora. If you would kindly let us through."

It was amazing how fast people got out of their way.

Except for Mulan, who came running up before Rumplestiltskin had finished his speech. "Belle? What's happened? We thought you were dead!"

Belle completely ruined his effort to make this a grand, intimidating moment by hugging Mulan and chattering away with her like an old friend. Oh, well, it probably made her seem less like a threatening demon, even if what she and Mulan were chattering about the prisons of evil queens and Mulan's battle history.

And the death of Philip.

"Oh, Mulan, I'm so sorry." Belle said, looking stricken. She turned to Aurora. "I'm so sorry, Princess. If we'd known—"

Aurora, lying on the small bed Rumplestiltskin had given her, face pale with a cold sheen of sweat on it, shook her head. "You didn't. If we'd known Rumplestiltskin was here, we could have called on him. We didn't know, either."

Rumplestiltskin glanced around the crowd to see how many of them thought calling on him would have been a good idea. They were edgy, like deer ready to bolt if they only knew which way to run. None of them felt _safe_ yet, not under his roof. But, some of them glanced at the food he'd provided, the strong walls and the warm fire. Some looked uneasily at the sausages.

Gaston, still in his beast form, hung his head when Aurora said that about calling Rumplestiltskin. He didn't meet the imp's gaze when he looked at him.

At least, he wasn't making eyes at Belle, though he watched her as she knelt down by Aurora's side, the large basket she'd brought, full of medicine and clean linen, on the floor beside her. Belle checked Aurora's fever and felt her pulse. Gaston whined anxiously. Rumplestiltskin sighed inwardly. He didn't need to see the future to know there was a long conversation in Belle and his future. And Belle would find out if he turned Gaston back into a rose.

Belle examined the burns on Aurora's feet, though not the ones higher up on her legs. Protecting her modesty, Rumplestiltskin realized. The room, after all, was crowded and full of men. It began to occur to him that, even with magic to help, this would not be a good place to give birth.

And the children witnessing it would be forever confused about how these things happened.

"How are you feeling?" Belle asked Aurora.

"Tired," she said. An understatement, given her haggard look and the bruise-like shadows under her eyes. "Very tired."

"It's all right," Belle said. "You'll be able to rest soon." She looked at the teacup by Aurora's bedside and smiled reassuringly. "No matter how much tea you've drunk." Belle kept her attention on Aurora, but she projected her voice so the listeners would hear. "My husband can give you a talisman that will protect you when you sleep. But, the only way to protect your child is for him to be born."

"He _should_ have been born by now," Aurora said. "I can feel him move. He should be well. But, he hasn't grown since Philip woke me."

"It's an effect of Regina' curse," Belle said, sounding as authoritative as if she were the one with centuries of experience with magic. The crowd around them seemed to believe it. Belle, talking about curses and spells, was reassuring. The tension eased as Belle—beautiful, human, and clearly concerned over what happened to Aurora—took charge. "She may have cursed this land, but we can deal with this." Belle looked over her shoulder at him. "Rumple, is there a better place for this? Where she can have some privacy?"

"Of course." He'd rarely made use of this wing of the castle, but he still knew it like the back of his hand. "The steward's room. It's not far from here." It was the largest of the servants' bedrooms and (he quietly cast a few spells) would be clean and comfortable for the princess. He looked at the anxious eyes fixed on them. Oh, they were just going to love having Rumplestiltskin whisk the wounded girl out of their sight. Sausages would be nothing compared to that. "Mulan, is there a midwife in your company? Or a healer?" Or a respectable chaperone who can come along and testify later that the Dark One did nothing unspeakable and obscene to the girl while (not that he expected them to remember this part) saving her life?

"I—I am," a gray-haired woman said. She had a look that reminded him of the wolf-woman, Lucas, though he could tell there was no similar curse on her. "I'm Widow Pierce, a midwife."

"You tended her wounds?" he said it perfectly mildly. With no hint of accusation. Really.

Widow Pierce still flushed. Good. She knew what another healer must have thought. "Barely. It's been days since I even had a chance to change the bandages. But, yes, I'm the one."

Rumplestiltskin nodded. She didn't try to deny what was wrong. And she managed to look him in the eye. "Good. You'll help my wife." He gathered up Aurora. Belle, Mulan, and Widow Pierce followed him out. After a moment's hesitation, so did Gaston.

In the brief moments while Rumplestiltskin was telling Belle about their guests and Aurora, he had also explained what needed to be done. And how.

His magic was _dark._ Ordinarily, it was little threat to a child. They were in a constant state of change. The darkness was shrugged off as their clean, innocent souls shifted from one moment to the next.

This baby, however, was frozen in time. They had to use magic to unfreeze it. He could do it easily, drawing the child out of his mother and essentially transforming him into something old enough to survive outside her womb.

But, the child would be frozen in that moment, unchanging. For twenty-eight years. The child would begin his life tainted by dark magic and wrapped inside it for nearly thirty years.

He caught glimpses of some of the futures where that could lead. He would have let the child die sooner than curse him with those fates.

Fortunately, there was an alternative. Rumplestiltskin had met the thieving assassins who sold Belle to Regina. Even if it had been too late to get answers out of them, he had found some of the things they'd stolen from her, including the pouch of fairy dust she'd used to save Philip from his curse.

There wasn't much dust left in it, just what had clung to the sides of the pouch when she emptied the rest on Philip, but it would be enough for what they needed to do. So long as Belle, who was untouched by dark power, did it.

And so long as she had a fairy's wand to focus the magic.

He'd seen her eyebrows rise when she saw the wand, recognizing it. "I didn't go after Robin Hood," he told her, not wanting to explain how the wand had been returned to a certain fairy godmother before he got it back from her-or explain _how_ he'd gotten it back from her.

At least, Aurora would back him up when he explained that _no one_ mourned that fairy. . . .

They went to the steward's room. Belle and Widow Pierce pulled down the blankets on the bed, recovering it with a thick, tarp-like sheet from Belle's basket. Childbirth, even magically aided, was messy.

Belle looked at Aurora's gown. It was heavily stained and about as sanitary as a midden. "We'll need to get this off her," Belle said. "Widow Pierce, I have a clean nightgown in the basket, there. Could you fetch it? Rumple, I need clean water. We'll have to give Aurora a sponge bath before putting ointment on her burns." Rumple conjured a basin of warm water for her, then discretely turned his back. He looked at Gaston, who took a moment to notice Rumplestiltskin was looking at him. Then, it took him a moment to realize _why_ he was looking at him. Hastily, he turned away, not looking at Aurora as the ladies undressed her.

Rumplestiltskin knew what would be happening, of course. The burns needed to be washed—carefully, so as not to cause more damage, tearing burnt skin. That done, Belle would apply the ointment Rumplestiltskin had given her. He could have healed Aurora's wounds, but it would be better to keep his kind of magic away from the baby right now. The ointment had powerful properties of its own but the price of its magic was paid in the making.

He heard Belle's breath catch. She must be seeing the full extent of Aurora's injuries. He waited patiently, listening to the women discuss the burns while treating them. Mulan, a warrior, not a healer, kept mostly silent. Gaston, his nose twitching at the smell of infection, wounds, and medicine, kept wanting to look around. Rumplestiltskin shook his head. Reluctantly, Gaston lay down on the ground, covering his nose with his paws.

"Right, Rumplestiltskin, we're ready for you."

Rumplestiltskin turned around. Aurora was modestly covered under the white gown. Rumplestiltskin looked at Widow Pierce. Magic had to be used at this point. Still, there were several ways to do this, some requiring more magic than others. It was just that less magic was messier.

He conjured a bedpan. "I apologize for the lack of decorum, Princess, but this will be over soon. Widow Pierce, can you help me get this under her?" Something, after all, needed to be done with the fluid gathered in Aurora's womb. He could conjure it away, but the messier way of letting it flow out would be more familiar—and reassuring—to the midwife. When Widow Pierce told her story, it would help for this to sound as much like a natural birth as possible.

Not that a man reaching into a woman's womb—before witnesses!—was ever considered natural. Which was why the nightgown and the way he had kept his back turned while letting the women tend Aurora had been important. Human or not, monster or not, he was making as big a display as he could of showing respect for the princess. Let them see what he was doing now was necessary—and that he was not pushing the bounds one hair beyond what was necessary.

Which wasn't strictly true. He _could_ have reached through the cloth of Aurora's gown and the flesh beneath without leaving so much as a drop of blood on her skin. But, this way, he hoped, might be less disturbing to all around.

Widow Pierce had likely had times when she had needed to help pull an unborn child out of the womb as well, even if she likely hadn't done it quite this way. Her hand, unaided by magic (he focused the power he was uing on Aurora, keeping it away from her son), would hardly have slid in so far, so easily—and before labor had even begun.

It would have also felt different to her. She wouldn't have been able to ignore the fact that she was reaching into a wet, moist, _messy, _human body and feeling things that were better off not felt. For Rumplestiltskin, it was almost as if Aurora's body didn't exist. Or it existed, just some place else. He was reaching past it, not truly touching her. Or so it felt.

Only the child felt real and solid when Rumplestiltskin touched him. He gently caught hold of the boy. Gingerly, he let out a few whisps of magic, examining the child. He was the size of a little girl's doll and not much heavier. But his lungs were developed enough for him to breathe, and everything else seemed strong. He looked over at Belle, who stood ready with the wand. "I'm pulling him out. Wait till I've cut and tied the cord before doing the spell." Magic, at its heart, was all about symbols. The point of this was to separate the baby from his mother—and have him grow beyond the point where he _should_ still be inside her. The cord was the symbol of that connection.

Rumplestiltskin pulled. The fluid from Aurora's womb flowed out, the infant riding the wave. Widow Pierce watched intently, but didn't look frightened or appalled. Rumplestiltskin didn't know what she was thinking, but she didn't _act_ as if this was worse than an ordinary birth.

The cord was cut and tied. He held the boy carefully. He was squalling and cold, and the flames _had _injured him despite his mother's protection. Rumplestiltskin would have wrapped him in one of the small blankets they'd brought if that wasn't the last thing they wanted to do with a child they were about to work this spell on. Instead, he held close against his chest (ruining a velvet waistcoat) while Belle, trying not to do look panicked, brought up the wand.

"Just hold the image in your mind," Rumplestiltskin reminded her. "It won't be hard."

Belle nodded. With a look of determination, she closed her eyes and concentrated.

Fairy magic. Rumplestiltskin could feel the difference between it and his own power. This was light and clean, like clear water, like starlight. Its consequences were so much simpler and easier to trace.

This magic was costing the boy about four months of his life.

As he would spend twenty-eight years without aging and as he had already spent months when he should have been growing either in the cursed sleep with his mother or under the beginnings of the curse once she'd woken, Rumplestiltskin hardly felt it mattered. Even the consequences that would normally be there—this was an important time in a child's life, when he was growing and making important connections in his mind—were no real problem. He'd already paid the price for them in other ways and would have more than enough time to make up for the gap (though Rumplestiltskin resolved to keep an eye on him, no matter what the guests thought of his interference, and make sure matters unfolded properly).

The boy grew in Rumplestiltskin's arms. His thin, red skin thickened, becoming white and pink. The faint, red marks from the fire healed and vanished. He blinked and cooed, reaching for Rumplestiltskin's nose.

Belle gasped as though she'd hit a wall. The last of the fairy dust from the pouch burnt away. Her eyes snapped open. "Did we—is he—"

"He's fine," Rumplestiltskin said. Despite his size, the baby looked at them with the milky, blue eyes of a newborn. But, in all other ways, he was just what a child his age should be.

"His eyes," Belle said. "Shouldn't the color be different?"

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "He's taking his first look at the world. He should see it through a newborn's eyes. Don't worry, they'll change soon enough."

Belle pulled a cloth diaper out of her basket, along with pins and a blanket to wrap him in. Rumplestiltskin handed her the child. Then, he gathered up Aurora again. "You can move the bedpan, he told Widow Pierce and Mulan. "And put a fresh sheet on the bed. That tarp can't be comfortable."

After that was done, he put Aurora back and tucked her in. Belle handed her the baby. "What are you going to call him?" she asked.

"Philip," Aurora said. "Philip Roland." She looked at Belle, hoping for approval. "For your side of the family. Because I can't think of a good boy's form of Belle."

"Beau," Rumplestiltskin said. "That's the masculine form. There's also Beauregard and Beaumont. Or there are boys' names that start with Bel. Belmont, Bellator, Bel—"

"Yes," Aurora said. "But none of them start with R."

"No, of course not. They—Oh," he stopped. "I—er. Thank you." He looked at the little prince. "I don't think anyone's done that before." Did this make him some sort of godfather, then? He thought of the look on Blue Fairy's face if she ever heard of Rumplestiltskin claiming such a thing. Yes, he decided, it most certainly did.

Philip Roland was falling asleep. His mother looked like she should follow after.

He conjured a small cradle. It was better made than the one Bae had had, but not dissimilar. "You both need some rest," he said. "We should be going, Belle."

"Yes. Get some rest, Aurora. We'll see to your people and get them settled."

That hadn't been what Rumplestiltskin meant. "I've already handed this wing over to them. They can do whatever they want with it." Within reason. So long as none of it was a move against Belle. Or him.

"I know. And thank you." Belle leaned against him in a way that wasn't quite a hug but was as close to one as a lady of a castle could manage while still facing her guests. Rumplestiltskin had a flash of hope that they might go up to their room and discuss this. Or, once they were alone, find something to do besides discuss it. . . .

Then, Belle leaned away, her thoughts already elsewhere. "But, those poor people looked too terrified to step out of the kitchen. I can at least show them the other rooms and where things are. I should also explain about the animals. I don't suppose any of them would slaughter a sheep without permission, but they should know the rules. And we can get them some clean clothes—they need that—and medicine. Aurora wasn't the only one who was injured."

Belle, Rumplestiltskin remembered, had been the lady of her father's castle. She had spent the Ogre Wars organizing refugees and seeing them sheltered and provided for. It looked like he'd given her a new hobby, something to do besides look after her kinswoman and his godson. And (he gave Gaston a sideways look) something other than have a conversation with her fiancé. Ex-fiancé . Just in case there was anything he needed to hear from Belle that he might not hear clearly if Rumplestiltskin said it.

And, if it didn't get through to him, Belle might even approve of a new rosebush.

But, Belle was talking to him. "Don't you want to talk to our guests, as well, Rumple? There has to be a reason they're still here."

"Why _are_ you here?" Mulan asked.

"Because I shielded the castle," Rumplestiltskin snapped. Belle made a protesting noise. All right, he'd explain. Some of it. These people hardly needed the whole story, even if he cared to give it to them. "I wasn't going to bother. The curse would have been a change, if nothing else. But, then I found out Belle was still alive. Under the curse, she'd have been at Regina's mercy. So, I decided to keep us here." If his eyes blazed a little and he managed to suggest what he would do to _anyone_ who threatened Belle, so much the better.

"But, that had nothing to do with what happened to you," he went on. "I only shielded this small area. You were all outside it. Belle's right." _As always._ "I need to know what happened."

Perhaps it was some joke of Regina's, to leave them behind. But, he doubted it. Regina liked to control people—and for them to know she was the one in control. She _could_ have just cast the curse to bring herself, the princess she wanted to torment, and a few allies to wait on her hand and foot. The thought had never crossed her mind. She brought _everyone._

No, something—or someone—had . . . he hesitated to call what it had done _protecting. _Something had shielded them. The list of powers that could do it was short. Very few were friends.

Yes, he needed to find out what had happened to them. Soon.

**Note: **This chapter is named after "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.

_Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village, though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow._

My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there is some mistake.  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep

.

Maybe not the best connection, but Rumple has just glimpsed that his life is getting complicated.

**This story was modified when I realized I'd left out why Belle was doing the spell and why she had the wand and fairy dust.**


	10. Our Lost Kingdoms

Belle watched the faces of the people as they told their stories, and she watched Rumple's face, too.

They were still wary, but they were clean and well fed. Belle had helped sort them into rooms, tended wounds, provided clean clothing and bed linen, and done everything else she could think of to make them feel welcome and safe.

It hadn't been completely successful. They had all looked at Rumple uneasily when he waved his hand and three chests had appeared in the kitchen, full of clothes for them to sort through and distribute any way they wanted. "Whose were these?" one of the women had the courage to ask.

Rumplestiltskin scowled. "No one's. They just popped into existence five seconds ago, in case you didn't notice. But, if you don't want to wear them—" He was about to snap his fingers. Belle wondered if he meant to make the chests vanish, to leave the people clean and the clothes they were wearing mended, or to strip them naked. She didn't give him the chance to let her find out.

"Rumple," she said. "These are guests."

"And very rude ones."

"They've had a hard time of it. Just ignore these lapses."

He gave her a dramatic, flourished bow. "As you wish."

At last, everyone was more or less clean and in fresh clothes. Laundry would be done later. They got down to the business of collecting the people's stories. Rumple produced a large map and began marking off places where the refugees had been and places they knew the curse had hit or hadn't hit.

Mulan went first. "After Aurora was cursed, we went looking for Gaston—" Belle saw Rumple watching her out of the corner of his eye, looking for her reaction to that name. He had told her how he'd transformed her betrothed—or ex-betrothed—into the giant dog currently watching over the sleeping princess and her baby in the other room (it was him or Widow Pierce, Rumple said, and he wanted to hear what Widow Pierce said). She didn't react, though they were going to talk at length later. "We thought he might be able to break through the barrier around Aurora's castle. We found him in the forest by the foothills of Maradan. We camped there overnight and could hear a storm in the distance, but it didn't reach us. When we came to the nearest village the next day, it was deserted. . . ."

One by one, the stories came out, along with other details. An eleven year old girl told how her village was tucked in a small valley in the hills. No one had known anything was wrong till the shepherds took their flocks up over the hill the next day and saw the devastation around them. They had come down and told the rest of the villagers, who hadn't believed them, not till they'd seen for themselves.

They'd sent people to the next town—and to the next. Everywhere they went, it was the same, lands destroyed, people gone.

"So, we gathered supplies for winter," the girl, Isabeau, said. She seemed lost and distant, reliving that time. The world was gone, destroyed. But, they gathered supplies for winter. The girl shrugged. "What else could we do? But, then, Ogres attacked." Her face took on the peculiar blankness of a child trying not to cry. "My parents sent us down to the root cellar." She pulled out a small jar. "Mother told me to give laudanum to Stefan to keep him from crying." Stefan was her brother. Age three, Belle guessed. Isabeau went on and told how they'd heard fighting. And screaming (Belle closed her eyes, memories of her own playing through her mind).

Then, the house above them was knocked down and set on fire.

Belle knew about this, too. When Ogres had killed and eaten—at least enough to take the edge off their hunger—they would often destroy everything that was left around them, knocking down houses and walls before finishing their meals. She didn't know why. She'd expect them to gorge themselves, then go off and sleep. Sometimes, that's what they did.

Other times, like this, it wasn't.

The children had been trapped in the basement of a burning house. Isabeau and her seven year old sister, Martine, had dug their way out. Stefan, drugged, hadn't cried—or woken—once. Their house was at the outskirts of the village. The Ogres had been mostly in the village square by then. The children had gotten away. They'd fled through the woods, afraid the Ogres might be on the road. They'd also gotten good and lost before stumbling on the survivors, and couldn't give Rumple anymore spots for his map. Widow Pierce had been the first survivor they met.

Widow Pierce told her story. She'd been called in to act as midwife for a kinswoman of the local lord. It had been late when the child was born, but she was anxious to get home—"No fool ever falls into the fire unless it's after all the sensible folk have gone to bed," she said tartly. Belle, who knew exactly what she meant, hid her grin.

The lord had given Widow Pierce the loan of a mule to ride back and a young soldier on horseback to accompany her. "The manor looks as though it should be on a straight line from the village," Widow Pierce said. "But the road down winds around the side of the hills. We must have been at the farthest edge of it. We saw the black clouds rolling towards us. Then, we saw a wall of silver rise up—"

"Silver?" Rumplestiltskin asked. "You're sure? Were there any other colors mixed in?"

He listened closely and took her over every detail she could remember. She was the only one who had seen the shield up close.

"What happened to the soldier?" Rumple asked.

"When we reached the village, it was gone, devastated. We returned to the manor to find it in the same condition, but a few rooms were intact. The soldier, his name was Rogers, left me there while he rode for the nearest town. I was supposed to wait, but a cold worm attacked."

"Really?" Rumple looked just skeptical enough to push more details out of her. "How _did_ you survive?"

Widow Pierce looked self-satisfied. "Set what was left of the manor on fire. Then, I got out the window while it was trapped inside." She sighed. "I had to keep moving after that. I don't know if Rogers ever made it back or not."

But, that was how she'd encountered Isabeau and her brother and sister, which had been a good thing for them.

Rumple listened to all the stories and made different marks on the map, where they'd been when the curse fell, assorted encounters, what they'd involved, and when. Belle saw the change in his eyes as the deaths and destruction added up. There had been losses for all of them along the way, people who hadn't made it, including another orphan, a young boy named Michael. His mother had died in the same attack that had cost them Philip.

But, Rumple kept focused on what he'd _said_ was the purpose of this meeting, learning what had happened to the curse. At last, they had all spoken, and he was ready to offer some opinions. "This is the area we _know_ was shielded," he said, indicating part of the map. "Assuming a circle of protection and only one spell-caster—likely, but not the only possibilities—this would be the entire area covered." He drew a larger circle around it.

"I don't know of anyone in that area who could have done it. More likely, it the caster was looking for an place without anyone in it whose absence Regina would notice."

"So, this caster would be afraid of her?" Belle asked. Not that that meant much. Belle, Prince Charming, Snow White, and nearly everyone else Belle could think of was afraid of Regina. Except Rumple. She thought.

"Possibly," Rumple said slowly. She could tell he was thinking of something along different lines. "Whoever did it was certainly being cautious."

"Would it have to be a person?" Mulan asked. "Maybe there was some natural defense against the curse."

Rumple looked thoughtful. "A natural barrier? When those happen, they're against smaller curses. But, perhaps. . . ." He looked at the map again, lost in thought.

Belle cleared her throat. "Rumplestiltskin? If we're done here, perhaps you'd like to take the map to your workroom and let our guests rest?"

"What? Oh, yes. Of course." He looked at the people in the room as though surprised they were still there. Belle thought for a moment he was about to add some "Dark One" admonition, "Remember, stay in this wing and you get to live," or something, but he only gave a courteous bow—courteous, not flamboyant, just a bow such as any lord might give his guests before departing—and said, "A good night to you all. If there are any difficulties or if you have need of me, send me word." He wouldn't have been Rumplestiltskin if he hadn't enjoyed the moment of silent panic that followed that declaration—they didn't even _know_ how to leave this wing and were forbidden to do so. How were they supposed to send word? Unless he meant. . . . They knew the stories, and how the imp might—or might not, depending on his whim—be summoned.

"Send Gaston," he said. "He'll know how to find me."

Gaston. Yes, there was a conversation they needed to have—not to mention the one she needed to have with Gaston. But, that one could wait. When Rumple took her hand, Belle curtsied to her guests, bid them a good evening, and let Rumple transport them to the long hall where he normally did business.

He sat back on the chair at the head of the table. "I didn't do this, Belle," he said. "The deaths, everything else, _I didn't do this_."

Belle sat down beside him (he'd finally added another chair). Yes, he'd made the curse and given it to Regina to cast. But, he'd never intended this—had taken steps to keep anything like this from happening when he'd shielded them. She put her hands on his shoulders. "I know." She looked into his eyes, willing him to feel her belief. Quietly, she added. "Who did?"

Rumplestiltskin got up, shaking off her hands and began to pace restlessly. "I don't know, but I don't like my guesses." He went to his spinning wheel, putting his hand against the large wheel, but not moving it. "A witch named Cora."

X

**Note: **The title of this chapter is from T. S. Eliot's _The Hollow Men_. Not my favorite poem, but its empty death land does sort of capture post-apocalyptic Fairy Tale Land. One verse in particular sums up Rumplestiltskin's part in what's happened to the people here.

_Between the idea  
And the reality  
Between the motion  
And the act  
Falls the Shadow_


	11. Untrodden Ways

_An Interlude Before Trials_

Rumplestiltskin had explained everything in a rush while gathering up medicines and asking Belle what she would need midwifing a normal birth. They were pouring tea down Aurora, he assured her, but he doubted that was going to buy them much time. She was too exhausted.

Then, in the middle of that, he had thrown out, "There's a demon dog with them, about the size of a wagon. I suppose you saw him from the windows?"

Belle nodded. She'd been watching from the tower. When she first saw the monster attacking the Ogres, she thought it was another attacker for Rumple to deal with. But, he'd turned his back on it while examining the princess, and the huge beast had stood watch over him while he worked.

"It's really a man," Rumple said. "One I made a deal with. In that shape, he can smell the people who attacked his betrothed. She was murdered. Or he thought she was murdered. It was complicated.

"That's not the only thing that's dog-like about him in that shape. He's devoted to Princess Aurora, curls up at her feet, would fetch her slippers if he could find any for her, that sort of thing. I understand she smells like his fiancée. I mean you. His name's Gaston."

"What? Gaston? _My_ Gaston?"

"I'm not sure he's 'your' Gaston. I'd like to think you gave up all claim on him when you married me. It's fairly standard in most marriages. If you felt differently, you should have included a clause in the marriage contract. Section six clearly indicated—"

Belle gritted her teeth. "Gaston from the Marchlands who served my father—who, I'm fairly certain, I stand as liege lord to in my father's absence: _my _Gaston. You turned him into a _dog?_"

"It was a vast improvement. And I had his permission. And he can turn himself back to a man. For limited amounts of time. Under limited circumstances. And, if today was typical, I think several of the people in the servants' wing would be dead if I _hadn't_ turned him into one. They certainly wouldn't have thought of coming to the Dark Castle for help." He had smiled virtuously at her. She had refrained from hitting him.

Of course, then he showed her the wand he _hadn't_ gotten back from Robin Hood. So he said. He'd gotten it back from the fairy godmother, who'd gotten it from Maleficent, who'd gotten it from Robin Hood, "After helping him break into my castle—that's not an easy thing to do. She's the one who started it all by cursing his true love. I admit, I never cared much for Maleficent, but she _does_ know how to plan. Unlike Regina."

He was trying to distract her—and she let herself be distracted. Because he was right. They had a band of refugees as well as a pregnant mother in need of help. The giant dog—and exactly how fair a deal Rumplestiltskin had made him—could wait.

Or that's what she thought until she was walking into Aurora's room and saw him lying on the floor, exactly like a real dog—if they made them that big—keeping watch over the sleeping princess and her son. Maybe she could have put this off a little longer.

Gaston looked over his shoulder to see who had come in, then hastily came to his feet when he saw it was her. He glanced at the window. It was late, but the sun hadn't set yet—Rumple had told her Gaston could force himself to transform during daylight hours, even if it wasn't easy.

And he did.

He looked more tattered around the edges, Belle thought. Instead of his court clothes that she had last seen him in, he wore old leathers. They fit him well enough but had a worn, second hand look to them and had been patched at the elbows and one of the knees.

"Belle," he said, keeping his voice low. Neither of them wanted to wake Aurora and Philip-Roland. He stood awkwardly for a moment before thinking to give her a quick, uncertain bow. "I suppose you want to talk?" he said. "Oh, and congratulations. Er, on your wedding."

There was a chest near the door. Belle sat down on it and gestured for Gaston to join her. "Thank you," she said. "That's very kind of you. Especially, given the . . . circumstances."

Gaston sat down next to her, taking his time before replying. It hit Belle that he was gathering his thoughts_. _ Had she _ever_ seen him do that before? The silence dragged on. _Well, _she thought, _it _is_ an unfamiliar activity for him. I shouldn't rush him._

"Rumplestiltskin . . . isn't so bad," Gaston offered.

_Not_ what she was expecting to hear. And, even if she was on Rumplestiltskin's side, not something that seemed entirely fair to Gaston. "He turned you into a dog."

"To find your killers. I wanted to do that, too. Even if I hadn't, I showed up at the castle waving my sword in his face and offering to fight him for you."

"You did _what?_" Of all the suicidally stupid things he could have come up with—! It must have been after she'd left, unless there was some other reason she hadn't noticed Rumplestiltskin dealing with lunatics at the door. "What happened?"

"He fought me. With magic. I lost."

"That's when he turned you into a dog?"

"No, that was later. I'm not sure what he did to me, then. Maybe he turned me into a stone and put me in his pocket. The next thing I knew was when I was waking up on your grave."

"My—did you say my _grave?_" This conversation was not going the way Belle expected.

"Or memorial stone," Gaston offered, not noticing her reaction. "I suppose there's no body under it. But, everyone I talked to seemed to think you were buried there. Anyhow, there's a stone in the cemetery with your name on it. Children put flowers on it."

He seemed to think that would comfort her. Belle sighed. "Gaston, _why_ is there a memorial stone for me?"

He shrugged. "The story was that you'd escaped Rumplestiltskin but were half-mad from things he'd done to you. In the end, despite everything they could do, you took your own life. Er, I take it he didn't do anything to you? I mean, nothing that would make, er, jumping from your father's tower a good idea?"

Belle stared at him. "No. He did not."

"Oh. Good. Not that I thought he had. Not after . . . well, anyway, the story Rumplestiltskin told me was that he let you go. That was the true one?"

Let her go, thrown her out. "He freed me, yes."

He studied her, trying to work something out. "Because he loved you?"

_And because he was afraid of being loved_. "Partly. It was . . . complicated."

"It would be. With him. Did you know he made a deal with Aurora for a painting of you? Well, not of _you_. It was of your great-grandmother, her great-great grandmother, Queen Katherine. But, you look just like her. I think I'd figured out before that that he liked you. But, I was certain, then.

"And. . . ." Gaston seemed to be struggling with something difficult for him. "It took me a while to figure it out, but . . . he was a better match for you than I was."

"Gaston. . . ." Belle wasn't quite sure what to say. _I agree with you_, was too rude. But, she couldn't think of anything else that wouldn't be an outright lie.

"It's true," he said. Gaston tried to find the words to explain things. "It was knowing Aurora that helped me see it." He looked at her, sleeping peacefully, her hand wrapped tight around the talisman Rumplestiltskin had given her. "She's spent her whole life trying to be the princess she thinks her kingdom needs—the one they want her to be. And, it's hard for her. People confuse her. She has a very straightforward way of looking at things. It isn't that she isn't intelligent. She is. More than she thinks. Just not about people.

"I saw the way she struggles to do what needs to be done—and trying so hard to hide that she's struggling—and I began to realize she's like you.

"You understand people—you understand them better than I ever gave you credit for when we were betrothed. But, you had a role to play, a role we wouldn't let you break out of." He stopped and looked at her uncertainly. "Am I making sense?"

Too much sense. It was something Belle had thought many times back in her father's court. "I . . . I tried never to be dishonest with you, Gaston."

He waved this aside. "I know. That's not what I mean. I mean . . . a noblewoman in the Marchlands isn't supposed to have ideas on how the war is conducted. I noblewoman isn't supposed to tell her father to fall back or attack. Even when she knows he should. She _never_ tells him to send to Rumplestiltskin for help.

"So, if you did those things, you had to work around us. You had to drop hints and lead the conversation. Then congratulate whoever finally put the pieces together and suggested what you'd known we should do all along." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know why you didn't go crazy. You must have wanted to scream at us sometimes. Or just knock our heads together."

_Yes. And no._ "You make it sound like I was always right. I wasn't. I can't count how many times I was wrong."

"Sometimes. Sometimes, there was a better plan. Sometimes, the plans we came up didn't work. But, you always helped. You were there for our war meetings. You know how often even experienced generals didn't see the obvious. We all made mistakes. But, what we came up with was always better because of things you'd pointed out. And we never even admitted you were doing it. Because, you weren't supposed to be able to do things like that.

"Women can do that in the United Kingdoms, and no one even blinks at it. But, Aurora had other problems. Philip, he loves—loved—her. But, what he was really in love with was a picture he had in his head. The daughter of Aurora-Rose, the child of true love. He had this idea of the perfect princess. And it wasn't her. Aurora, when she realized it, she was terrified of him finding out the truth. Because, she cares about people. She hates to hurt them or let them down. And, she _did_ love Philip. It may not have been true love, but she cared what happened to him. That's what she traded the painting to Rumplestiltskin for, to protect her son and to keep Philip from finding out she wasn't his true love.

"When Rumplestiltskin asked for it, Aurora asked him if that was really all he wanted. I remember he said 'There are things I want more. I think I would prefer the reality to the image. But, I will take what I can get.'

"It took me a while to understand. He meant you. But, he thought you were dead. He deserves you," Gaston added. "I don't."

This wasn't the way conversations with Gaston were supposed to go. Belle wasn't used to him being reasonable. Or insightful. She wondered if that was misunderstanding all of this. "You sound like I'm a prize you're handing out at the harvest fair."

Her voice had been teasing. Or she'd meant it to be. But, it was easier to accuse Gaston of treating her as an object to be won than it was to accept that he understood she wasn't. Or maybe that's just what he'd expected her to accuse him of. He reddened. "No! Of course not! I don't mean. . . ." he stopped and took a breath. "Belle, when you needed someone to save you, he did it. And I didn't. And, when you needed someone to appreciate you, to understand you, he did those things, too. You need him. And he needs you.

"I don't think you ever needed me."

"Gaston. . . ."

"It's all right. What I mean is I'm glad. I'm glad you found someone who—who you don't have to pretend to be someone else with. Or, even when you don't pretend, someone who isn't so thick he can't see the truth when it's right in front of his eyes.

"I wish—I wish I'd been able to see that on my own, who you really were, what you really wanted. But, I'm glad for you. I wanted to say that. I'm glad you're alive. I'm glad you're with the one you love."

"Thank you, Gaston. I—I didn't expect you to take it like this. What you said about Aurora, did she help teach you this?"

"Not directly. She thinks I'm a dog. Well, she knows better. But, she's never seen me as a man."

"But you . . . care for her. Do you—would you like me to ask Rumplestiltskin to change you back?"

"I . . . don't know." Gaston shifted uncomfortably. Belle thought of what Rumple had said. Part of Gaston felt towards Aurora the way a loyal dog would. And, maybe that was easier for him right now than more complicated, human relationships. "I want to protect her," he said. "The way I couldn't protect you. I've done a pretty bad job of it, so far. Philip died. I got careless. I didn't even smell these Ogres coming and, next thing I knew, Philip was dead. He might not have understood Aurora, but he'd have laid down his life for her. He did. Three days ago.

"And she's been sick and cursed and burned and watched her husband die and wondered if her son would die, too, while I couldn't do anything to help.

"Now, for the first time since Maleficent said she was going to come after her, Aurora's safe. She can _sleep_ for the first time since the curse was broken. I want . . . I don't know. I want to be her dog. It's easy, being that. I can protect her. And she can trust me. She _needs_ me.

"I—I don't think she needs Gaston."

**Note: **This chapter's title is from Wordsworth's _She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways_ because it's difficult to find a poem that fit this chapter.

_SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways_

_Beside the springs of Dove,_

_A Maid whom there were none to praise_

_And very few to love:_

_A violet by a mossy stone_

_Half hidden from the eye!_

_-Fair as a star, when only one_

_Is shining in the sky._

_She lived unknown, and few could know_

_When Lucy ceased to be;_

_But she is in her grave, and, oh,_

_The difference to me!_


	12. Roads not Taken

"I thought . . . I believed . . . Cora loved me," Rumplestiltskin said.

He didn't want to be having this conversation. He didn't want to be having it _here, _in the great hall where Belle could simply walk away from him when he'd said too much. In their room, perhaps, holding her, letting her know he loved her no matter what the words coming out of his mouth seemed to say.

And, incidentally, making it harder for her to run away. . . .

No, talking about it here was better.

_The miller's daughter dressed in red. . . ._ It was a line from an old ballad. It had nothing to do with Cora. Or everything, depending how you looked at it.

He didn't hide Cora's virtues—if that was the word for them—as he told the story. Her courage, her fighting spirit, he didn't hide his admiration for them.

More haltingly, he found himself telling her _why_ he'd admired them. Or some of the reason why.

"When I was a man—just a man—I was weak. Crippled. I learned . . . to do what I had to. To survive. To protect my boy. The fight was burned out of me.

"Cora . . . back then, if you sent her against an army of Ogres with nothing but her bare hands to defend herself with, she'd fight. And she wouldn't admit she could lose, not even when she lay dying. The whole world could reach up and take her by the throat, and her only reaction would be to spit in its eye.

"When I offered her a deal, she was locked up in the king's tower awaiting execution. She'd snuck into a masked ball at the palace—the prince, who was an idiot, had begun to fall in love with her—and the king saw her. More than that, he recognized her. He insulted her and was going to throw her out. He told her she could offer nothing but straw. _She_ said she could turn straw into gold."

Rumplestiltskin had been watching all of this unfold—by then, he knew (or thought he knew) the role she would play. He had no intention of letting her get herself killed before she could fulfill it. "The king was not a literal minded idiot, you understand. There were plenty of ways that could have been taken metaphorically. But, if he'd done that, he wouldn't have had a chance to drag her up in front of his guests, mock her for her claims, and give her choice between admitting she'd lied or being killed if she couldn't make good on them.

"She took the deal. Naturally, I showed up and offered her another: to spin the straw into gold in return for her firstborn child—Don't look at me like that! I _needed_ her firstborn child. Needed her to be born, to grow up, to fulfill certain prophecies—it's not as easy as some people make out, pulling on the strings of fate, I'll have you know.

"Not that it matters. Cora took one look at the deal and demanded changes."

"She wouldn't give you her child," Belle said with certainty—and relief.

"Ah . . . no." And, perhaps that was when he should have known, and yet. . . . "It was a heavy price. But, if she didn't pay it, the child would never be born at all." He studied Belle curiously. "What would you have done in her place?"

He'd seen Belle's horror that Cora _would _sell the child, despite demanding changes. That was followed by a troubled thoughtfulness as she considered what he said. A choice between the child being bartered away or never being born at all—and her death, too, although, with Belle, he was never sure how much she considered danger to herself. Not as much as she should, that was certain.

"I . . . don't know," Belle admitted. "I suppose I'd at least ask why you wanted the child. And what you intended to do with it." She studied Rumple, troubled and uncertain. "What deal did Cora make with you?"

"She demanded I teach her how to make straw into gold rather than do it for her—which isn't easy to do overnight. But she managed it.

"The king kept his bargain. She was to marry the prince and live happily ever after and so forth. I visited her before the wedding. I. . . ." How to say this? "She knew. . . . I'd hardly tried to hide how I felt. She was beautiful, intelligent, brave, and determined. But, when she had second thoughts about marrying the prince, when she suggested coming with me instead, it was like being hit with cold water. I told her what she would find with me: darkness and isolation."

"That's not what I've found," Belle said, taking his hand.

He tightened his fingers around hers, then nodded towards the windows and their open curtains. "You bring light with you, Belle." He tried to imagine Cora forcing windows open and demanding to know if he'd nailed them shut. "It's not something Cora would do.

"But, she said she loved me. . . . I don't know if I believed her. I believed she meant it. I . . . altered our deal. I still have it filed away in my records. She didn't owe me her firstborn. She owed me _my_ child." He brooded over his memories of that night. "I think she meant it. A little. At least, while we were making the deal. I can see the future. Bits of it. And I could see that child. The . . . possibility of her. It was real, then." He smiled at the memory. "A young girl, small for her age, skinny, prone to wearing holes at the elbows. She had my hair and eyes—and my nose, poor thing. Not to mention the most stubborn face you ever saw. . . . She was beautiful.

"But, Cora wanted to have her last farewell with the king. She asked me . . . you've seen me tear out a man's tongue and put it back, no harm done. I can do that with any part of him I want. I can pull out his heart and leave him alive. It's a powerful magic," he added. "If you hold someone's heart, you can force that person to do nearly anything you wish.

"I prefer deals, but. . . ." But, what? He'd done it. He knew how to do it. He hadn't hesitated to teach Cora. "I showed her how. Then, I sent her off to have her fun." The word tasted like ashes. Everything that happened—everything he suspected was now happening—went back to that moment.

"The next time I saw her, she had . . . changed. She told me she'd . . . hesitated when it came to taking the king's heart. Something was stopping her.

"Cora hated any weakness. And anything weak. That's what I was, something weak, something that made her think twice about taking the power she wanted. And that's what the regret she felt when she was about to kill the king was, a weakness. So, she dealt with both of them.

"She left the king's heart exactly where it was. It was her own heart she tore out and hid away.

"From that day to this, she's loved nothing and no one. She's also hard to kill, unfortunately.

"She married the prince and kept her child—I had no claim under the new deal I'd given her. Regina. That's her daughter. But, she's only a pale imitation of what her mother became.

X

Belle was not sure what she had expected from Rumplestiltskin when he began telling her about Cora. She had seen it was something he wanted to put off even before he reminded her she'd told him she meant to speak to Gaston (and there was another conversation they needed to have. Even if both Rumple and Gaston seemed to think it was perfectly reasonable to turn him into a giant dog, _she_ didn't).

But, after one or two half-hearted jokes about her once betrothed, Rumplestiltskin finally began to tell her about the enemy he thought they might have.

He'd believed she loved him.

There was almost no pain in his voice. To someone who didn't know him, it might not have been there at all. It was his eyes that tore at her. She saw the bewilderment still lying deep within them, like a child who had been hurt and still can't understand _why_.

He seemed to expect Belle to be angry with him, that he had loved anyone before her, even if it hadn't been true love. She heard his voice warm as he spoke of the things he'd admired in Cora, her courage, her fortitude—and she felt her heart constrict as Rumple spoke of the man he used to be. There was no confusion in his eyes when spoke of those memories. The strong hurting the weak, it was something he'd learned to understand firsthand.

And she had heard the soft wonder in his voice as he spoke of the child that might have been, the daughter his sight had shown him. _She was beautiful._

Belle ached for him and for that little girl who would never be.

_What would you have done in her place?_ he'd asked. If he'd come to her, bargaining for a child, a child who would never even have a chance to exist if she didn't make the bargain, what would she have done?

Knights and lesser nobles sent their sons to live far from home and begin their training as pages as young as seven. It wasn't uncommon for well off families to take in children of their poor relations, who might not see their birthparents for years. Belle could think of a dozen ways a woman might be asked to give up her child that had nothing to do with a grinning imp with magic sparking from his fingers.

For the child's good, yes, she could do it.

But . . . she tried to imagine if, locked in Regina's tower, some wizard or witch had appeared, offering to rescue her in return for a promise of her firstborn.

She remembered the one-handed man who had broken in—or pretended to. He'd wanted the secret of some weapon he thought could be used against Rumplestiltskin. She'd thought he was going to kill her when she refused.

A blade that _might_ be able to harm Rumple was one thing. What could he have done with Rumplestiltskin's _child?_ And what would the pain she saw now in her husband's eyes at these memories be like compared to the knowledge that _his wife_ was the one who had bartered their child away? Just imagining it made her feel ill.

But, he'd given the child back to her, his way. Or Cora had tricked him into changing the deal. Rumplestiltskin himself seemed uncertain which one had happened.

And he'd taught her how to enslave—or murder—a king, believing that's how she meant to use it. That was bad enough. But, the use she'd put it to. . . .

"What—what does it mean? What's it like, to have your heart ripped out?" she asked.

"It depends. Most people who have been . . . enslaved that way go about their lives. Till the one holding their heart orders them to perform some task. Then, they do it. No matter what it is. The rest of the time . . . they have the memory of what it's like to feel. They know what they should be feeling. It's like walking along a familiar place at night when it's too dark to see colors. But, your mind knows what the colors should be, and tells you you're seeing them. You'll swear the trees were green, even though they're not. Or it's like being too tired to care what's happening but too tired to realize you don't care. Unless something wakes you up, and you realize how numb and empty you are.

"When you've torn it out yourself. . . . If Cora had had a true love, she could murder him quite cheerfully. She would be surprised that anyone would expect her not to. She isn't asleep. She knows. And it doesn't matter to her."

_If she had had a true love. . . ._ So, she could murder Rumplestiltskin—or the prince she'd bargained for—or even her daughter.

And she might be responsible for the deaths the refugees had told them of. More than Regina. More than Rumplestiltskin.

He hadn't let his horror show till they'd left, but it had been only too clear then. _I didn't do this._ For all the sins that might lie on her husband's soul, whatever fates might have waited for these people in the other world where the curse would have sent them, she believed him when he said that. This wasn't his work.

"And Regina?" she said. "What would have happened to her if you'd taken her?"

"I . . . don't know. My original plan would have been to have her raised near me. I'd be the crazy old uncle, checking up on her from time to time. With Cora . . . I would have raised her. Or the child who would have been born instead of her.

"Magic is shaped by emotion," he added. "The curse was still . . . being created. Shaped. I knew the shape of nearly all the pieces, but some parts . . . are from what happened. Regina sacrificed a great deal to cast that curse.

"I think, if things had been different, the curse would have been as well."

"What if there had been no curse at all?" Belle asked, not sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing to Rumplestiltskin. For him, did no curse mean giving up all hope of finding his son?

But, Rumplestiltskin only smiled wolfishly. "Oh, no, Belle, there was never any chance of that. Some futures are cast in stone. From the moment Regina was born, the curse became inevitable."

X

**Note: **Title refers to The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost


	13. Graveyard Marble

**An Interlude:**

Her name was Sorrow.

It was really Saro, a common enough name in her mother's homeland, far across the sea, but Saro had given up trying to explain this to people and just let them call her Sorrow. The world being what it was, many wondered if her mother hadn't foreseen some great grief in her life and given her the name as a warning.

Sorrow had never thought they might be right.

Now, as she made her way across the ruined land, she knew better.

She had been night fishing when she saw the black clouds fly over the land. Young and hearty, as her mother said, there was no special hardship in being out late in the cove on a night with a full moon—and the fish were quick to come to her lantern's light.

Or they were till the clouds boiled over the hills. They swallowed up the land and then the boats nearer to shore. All the fishers in the cove began desperately rowing away from them, whatever they were. Sorrow, farthest out to begin with, was the only one who'd made it. She saw the darkness eat up her friends, one by one. Then, it came for her.

She'd been beyond the cliffs that marked the entry into the protected cove, into the deep water where the currents ran strong and deep, far too strong for a little boat like hers. But, that was what saved her. The current grabbed her and pulled her even further from shore—and a silvery wall had appeared, stopping the black clouds.

She didn't know why or how. She didn't know what magic had intervened or why it spared her and not the others. Only that the clouds were stopped.

And, then, she was alone.

The currents carried her farther out and fought her efforts to return. She spent two terrifying days at sea before finally managing to make it back to shore. By then, she was far up the coast. At the time, she couldn't imagine anything better than finding water. The small stream where she'd finally drowned out her raging thirst had seemed like the most wonderful thing she could ever imagine.

Later, as she'd passed one ruined village after another, she began to realize there were some things worse than that parched, burning pain in her throat and the dizziness and aching head as it ate away at her. Dying of thirst or drowning was nothing compared to being the only person walking through a ruined, empty world.

Eleven days passed before she finally saw her own village. Like the others, it was empty. The houses, what was left of them, looked like they had been abandoned centuries ago, ruins torn apart by storms and time. Searching about, Sorrow found some food. She also found some clothes. Most of what she'd found in the other villages were just rags ready to be cut up for patchwork. This time, she found a clothesline behind a cottage where some things had been left to dry. The line had been broken and the clothes were lying in the mud, but they were still there. Sorrow wondered what difference that made to the black clouds, but didn't waste too much time on the question, gathering up what she could use.

She didn't stay in the village. It might have made sense to. There was some food, after all, and enough grain had survived in the fields that she could have harvested something and tried to get ready for winter. She could have begun making some kind of shelter. A part of her recognized it as the wise thing to do.

Another part of her knew that she would die if she stayed. She had searched every inch of the village, gone into every home, called out every name she knew till her voice was hoarse and she wondered if she was going mad, desperately looking for what she knew wasn't there. She couldn't stop herself, even knowing it was hopeless.

Sorrow knew, so long as she stayed here, she wouldn't be able to stop, not for long. She would drive herself mad, looking for the people the storm had taken. So, she gathered up what she could and slept in the woods that night, far enough away there wasn't even a chance of seeing the empty ruins no matter how brightly the moon shone.

The was a large piece of land jutting off the mainland's peninsula, to the north and east. If the silver wall that had protected her had shielded anything else, it should be out that way. She went to one of the villages—not her own, a neighboring one—and searched the docks. She found a small sailboat in good repair—better for deep water than her rowboat had been—and set off in it.

She kept close to the coast. She didn't know the currents out here, after all. But, she still felt safer out in these waters than she had making her way through the forests at night.

Or she did till she saw the sea serpent.

It didn't see her—or didn't consider her worth its trouble—but she saw the great curve of its scaled, white skin breaking the water, thicker around than the great oak that stood in the village green, said to have been planted over 500 years ago.

Unlike the sketches she had seen, there wasn't a chain of hill-like curves, one after the other rising in the water. Only the one. She hadn't seen the monster's head. Perhaps she hadn't looked up in time (and what would she have done if she had seen it, eyes big as her lost rowboat glowing at her before they sank indifferently into the sea?). Perhaps, whatever it was doing, it didn't have any reason to lift its head out.

She never did know what it was up to, or why it curved up in this one spot to touch air. She only knew that she saw scales rising from one end only to fall in at the other. She counted fifteen heartbeats before a broad, fluked tail rose at the end, splashing the water before vanishing.

Sorrow sailed on, but she kept thinking back on it. There must have been fishing boats and other ships out at sea when the black clouds hit. If that was where the protection had been, why hadn't she met any? She thought of the sea serpent and tried not to wonder if that was the answer.

She was relieved when she reached the peninsula and stood on dry ground again, even though the dock she found had been smashed to pieces. There were a few posts standing in the water and, a bit nearer to shore, some of the planks were still in place. She came in as close as she could before securing the sailboat. Sorrow could only hope that, if she needed it again, the shallow water would give some protection from whatever had attacked this place.

She followed the road leading from the dock to the village. Her heart leapt as she saw _houses_—walls still solid, thatched roofs intact, two rows of beautiful, undestroyed houses. Sorrow ran towards them, screaming out to whoever might be there.

She'd past the first five cottages before realizing no one had answered.

There was no one there, no one working among the gardens or fetching water from the wells, there was no one walking along the dirt road on their way from one task to another—there was _no one._

She didn't believe it. Or didn't want to believe it. She went from door to door, pounding on them, going in to search one home after another. They were all empty.

Trying to stay calm, she began to search for signs of what had happened. There were no signs of panic, no buckets dropped as someone turned desperately and ran, no meals left half-eaten on tables, no doors left ajar by people racing out to escape some unknown horrors. Instead, the fires in the hearths had been carefully put out. The doors had been closed. Searching more carefully, she found signs of supplies being packed up and taken away. Food, clothes, tools, all had been carefully gathered up.

Finally, she came to the town hall. Again, the doors were closed, but they'd been left unlocked. There, in the entryway, Sorrow found her answer. There was a map nailed to the wall, an explanation written out and nailed alongside it.

It had a brief summary of the black mists—the "coming of the curse," the writer called it. Not long after, the sea serpent Sorrow had seen or some near relation had attacked the town, destroying most of their boats along with the docks. Then, a messenger—one known to them, a local hunter—had come. He told them about the empty land Sorrow had already passed through—results of "the witch's curse," and told how survivors were gathering at a more defensible spot not far from where she stood.

The villagers had gathered and discussed matters, although their decision was a foregone conclusion. They packed up their belongings into their wagons and left, leaving this explanation along with directions for anyone following after.

People, Sorrow thought. People alive and nearby.

They had to have found some kind of safety. Normally, a family moving from one village to another had to borrow wagons or pay a fee for someone to help move their things. There couldn't have been enough wagons and carts in this place to empty it out the way she'd seen. They must have come back for the rest. Three or four trips, she guessed, unless the other survivors had had wagons to loan them.

That night, Sorrow slept beneath a roof. The bedding, of course, had been taken along with everything else. But, it felt wonderful to close the door and bar it against anything that might be roaming the night. It felt just as good to have a fire in the hearth and not worry about the light betraying her to anything that might be out there.

In the morning, she took to the road again. At times, it was all she could do to keep from running down it. She still had to camp in the open that night when it became too dark to go on, but that was all right. She was almost there. Fifteen miles, she guessed. She could cover that tomorrow on foot. Fifteen more miles, and Sorrow would reach _people._

She spent a restless night and was up before dawn. As soon as the gray light grew strong enough, she was hurrying down the road again. Much of it was uphill,l and the way was becoming rockier and harder to follow—defensible, she thought, if there were things on land as dangerous as what she'd seen in the sea—but she saw the stone walls by midafternoon. She rushed towards them. She wanted to laugh or sing or dance or do _something_ other than just rush up to them, begging to be let in. But, that was what she did.

"Stop there!" one of the guards at the wall cried. He had a crossbow aimed right at her.

Sorrow raised her hands, trying to look as harmless as she felt.

"Who are you?"

"Sorrow," she said. "Sorrow of Graycliff."

"Graycliff. What's that?"

"A fishing village, sir. South and west of here. We're about a day's journey from the fortress at Ice Bay."

"Can you recite the charm against boggles?"

They wanted to know if she was human—or one of the things that wasn't human but that still might be safe to let into a human town. The charm against boggles was one of the simplest warding rhymes. Every child knew it. Dark things were supposed to be unable to say it. Sorrow, looking at the arrow aimed at her heart, licked her suddenly dry lips, and began to recite.

"_From ghouls and ghasts_

_And long-legged beasts_

_And the things that moan in the night_

_May the good gods deliver us."_

The man nodded, but the crossbow didn't move. "And the prayer of deliverance?"

They kept Sorrow out there for a good half-hour, reciting prayers and charms, things that might have burnt the tongue of darker creatures. Then, they tossed down an amulet and told her to hang it around her neck. She did. Since she didn't burst into flames, they lowered a rope for her, not risking opening the gate.

Sorrow found out they weren't done with her yet. There were icons to touch, running water to step over, and every other test she'd ever heard of. Sorrow, who'd barely eaten anything for breakfast and hadn't stopped for lunch, began to feel dizzy. Since fainting while being tested for evil magic would likely be held against her, she tried to ignore it and keep going.

"That's enough! The poor child's proven herself! Can't you see she can barely stand?"

The crowd parted and a woman came through. She was in her fifties, Sorrow guessed, though there was no hint of gray in her brown hair. She wore a gown of deep blue silk. A noblewoman. A man walked alongside her. Tall, with dark hair and beard, he kept his hand on the hilt of the sword hanging by his side, watching those around him like a cat ready to spring, though the crowd parted quickly and respectfully for both of them. A guard of some sort, and one who didn't relax just because things seemed safe.

The lady smiled kindly at Sorrow. "And who might you be, my dear?"

"Sorrow," she said. "Sorrow of Graycliff."

"Saro?" the woman gave the name the same inflection Sorrow's mother had. "Is your family from across the sea, then?"

Sorrow's eyes widened. "Yes, my lady, my mother's kin."

The woman smiled. "I thought as much. And I am not 'my lady.' I am Princess Cora of the House of Xavier."

Sorrow paled and quickly curtsied. "Forgive me, your highness."

"It's no matter. You look worn out. Come with me. I'll show you some place you can rest. You there! Fetch our guest some food!"

There was a large keep inside the grounds. Cora led Sorrow there, asking her questions about her journey and what she had seen of the outside world. Sorrow told her how the black clouds had emptied the village, of her time lost at sea, and of the sea serpent she had seen.

"You were fortunate," Cora said. "The serpent must have fed recently. Or it saw your boat and didn't realize anything so small could make a meal." Sorrow shuddered. "There, there," Cora said. "You're safe now."

She led Sorrow into a large room. It was full of cabinets full of drawers, row after row of them.

"Captain," Cora addressed the guard, who still dogged her steps. "Do you want the girl?"

"No thanks, Cora. Even if you cleaned her up, she's too skinny for me."

It took Sorrow a moment to realize they had been discussing her—and another moment to realize _what_ they had been discussing. She looked at the princess, sure she had misunderstood. The woman looked back at her with reassuring kindness. "Y-your highness?" Sorrow asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are we upsetting you?" Cora said. "The captain . . . recruits some of our newcomers. He trains some of them, those who look like they might make good fighters. It gives him something to do."

"I—I see."

"Of course," Cora went on. "Some of the girls he wants for other things. You're quite right to be worried. Not that it matters. As he said, you're too skinny." She opened one of the drawers. It was small and covered with gold.

A joke, Sorrow thought. One she didn't quite understand. That had to be what the princess met.

Then Cora, still smiling kindly, reached into Sorrow's chest and tore out her heart.

X

**Note: **This chapter is named from Robert Frost's poem _Directive._

_Back out of all this now too much for us, _

_Back in a time made simple by the loss _

_Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off _

_Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, _

_There is a house that is no more a house _

_Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town. _

_The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you _

_Who only has at heart your getting lost_

_May seem as if it should have been a quarry— _

_Great monolithic knees the former town _

_Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered_


	14. Look for Me by Moonlight

Belle didn't know what to think as Rumple finished his story. He thought it likely there were more people out there. And one of them might try to kill them. Or worse.

"Come with me," he said. "There's something you should see."

At first, she thought he was leading her up to the tower. Instead, he went off a branching corridor, one she'd never noticed before (she wondered, sometimes, how many secrets were still hidden in the castle), that ended in a small, locked door. Made of heavy oak, reinforced with steel, it looked like a cell of some sort. Instead, it opened onto a study. There was a large desk loaded down with paper, pens, and bottles of ink. Shelves of books lined the walls. Many of them, Belle realized, were handbound—papers sewn together between protective covers without a true cover or spine.

Handwritten books belonging to Rumplestiltskin. Ones he'd written himself, then? His journals and notes? If so, a large number had accumulated over the centuries.

There was a small cot in a corner, too narrow to be called a bed. It took up as little room as possible, the rest being given over to papers and books.

Except for one spot on the wall that had been cleared away. There were no obvious signs—holes where shelves had been nailed to the walls, wear marks, or different coloring in the paint from where light had hit it and where it had been blocked by books—it was just obvious this room existed for materials to be read, written, or stored. Anything else (like the cot) was tolerated out of necessity.

Hanging over the desk, where the man working at it could look up and see it anytime he wanted to, was a painting—of Belle.

Only it wasn't Belle. She'd never sat for it, and the woman in it was dressed in fashions over a hundred years old. Belle studied her, looking for differences. She seemed older and more sure of herself, Belle thought. Her face had a practical look mixed with kindness and good humor as she looked out at the world—or at Rumplestiltskin's study. She seemed ready to step out of the frame and start tidying while discussing Rumple's plans with him, along with any insights on how to get the job done.

"Who is she?"

"Katherine of the North, your great-grandmother."

"That—that's the picture you bargained for with Aurora?"

He met the painting's eyes with a matching humor. Belle had the oddest feeling the two were sharing a joke. "It seemed a good idea at the time."

It was when he'd thought she was dead. And, there were no paintings of Belle. There'd been a portrait painted of her, of course, when she was betrothed to Gaston. That had been at his family's manor when the Ogres attacked. There was a miniature her mother had made of her as a little girl. She supposed her father still had it. Unless Regina had stolen it away from him when the curse fell, or just left it behind. Or unless Rumplestiltskin _had_ found a way to get it from him. . . . She doubted it. He would have had to talk to her father, in that case. And, even if he hadn't realized Lord Maurice had nothing to do with her "death" . . . Belle knew Rumple. A father's keepsake, his memory of a lost child, guilty or not, it wasn't the kind of thing Rumple would connive to tear away from him.

Belle looked around the small chamber, not certain what else to say about the painting. "And . . . this is your room?" She'd seen other rooms he used—she'd cleaned and laundered his clothing, after all. She knew where all the wardrobes were. But, the beds in the castle were in empty guestrooms, dungeons, and servants' quarters. And the room he'd given her. They were possessions, she thought, valuable as belongings, not things meant to be used. Or (she thought of the servants' quarters and dungeons) not meant to be used by _him._

He saw her looking at the bed. "I told you I don't sleep the way you do. Not as often and . . . not as much." Belle heard the distinction in his voice, even if she didn't understand it. How was "not as much" different from "not as often"? She hadn't seen him sleep, not in the whole time she'd shared a bed with him. He was either awake beside her or already reading through a book or working on some other project near their bedside. "The cot's more than enough for me," he added.

"But, that's not what I brought you here to see." He reached up to the painting. It was on hinges and swung as easily as a cupboard door. There was a small cabinet built into the wall behind it, locked with five different keyholes. "I should probably give you the keys to this," Rumple mentioned in passing. "There are seven, not five. The other two are hidden. It has to be opened carefully, in the right order, or bad things can happen."

"And what do you have in there?"

"Traps. And misleading information. Giving you the keys might make it more convincing to anyone who broke in."

Which was Rumple all over. "So, that's not what you wanted to show me."

"Oh, I wanted you to see it. And I'll teach you how to open is safely. It may be useful to you. But, it's not the point, no. This is." Rumple pointed to the back of the frame. The edges were elaborately carved with a pattern of flowers and leaves. Rumple twisted two of them and pressed three others. Part of the thick, wooden back slid away, revealing a twisted dagger. The name "Rumplestiltskin" was etched into the blade.

"What is that?"

"Something very dangerous." Rumplestiltskin took Belle's hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed it solemnly, like a knight making a pledge to his lord. Then, he placed her hand against the back of the frame. Something stabbed into Belle's palm. She jerked her hand back and saw that it was bleeding. The opening slid closed, hiding the dagger.

"And, now," Rumple said, "only your blood can open it."

He ran a finger over her hand. The bleeding stopped.

"What is that dagger, Rumple? When—when that man came to my cell, the one who told me he'd help me escape, he said there was a weapon that could be used against you."

"Yes. And used by me. An interesting paradox.

"It's the dagger of the Dark One, the source of my curse and my power. Stab me through the heart with that, and I die. Hold it while I live, and you command me." His eyes burned into Belle's as he looked at her. "If the person holding that commanded me to kill you, I'd obey. If my son were here and if I were ordered torture him, I would. If the person holding that told me to feed Philip-Roland to Ogres, there would be nothing I could do to stop it—nothing except try to find loopholes in my orders, different ways to enact them.

"And Cora knows not to make those mistakes.

"Listen to me, Belle, this is important. I have to go away and see what's happening. I am going to put all the castle's defenses in your hands. Do not let anyone else get the dagger.

"Remember, you can summon me with my name if you need me—and my ring protects you. But, even if the castle is breached, even if someone manages to get past the defenses on the ring, remember, there's_ nothing_ they can threaten you with that won't be worse if the dagger falls into their hands."

X

**Note: **This title is from Noyes poem The Highwayman. And, no, the fact that I'm quoting a hero who's about to go off on a dangerous quest while bad things happen to his sweetheart back at the inn is in no way foreshadowing.


	15. Much of a Which of a Wind

**Note:** Sorry this one is late. It was a tricky chapter interrupted by a family reunion. For everyone reading this, thank you for your support! I really appreciate it.

Also, this chapter was taken from e. e. cummings What if a Much of a Which of a Wind. Some of you may notice I'm reusing poems, but I like this one.

_what if a much of a which of a wind  
gives the truth to summer's lie;  
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun  
and yanks immortal stars awry?  
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem  
(blow friend to fiend: blow space to time)  
—when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,  
the single secret will still be man_

X

Being the Dark Lady was strange, or so it seemed to Belle.

After Rumplestiltskin left, Belle was in charge of the castle. Rumplestiltskin, being (they both hoped) overprotective, had set down every safeguard he could think. "Don't let anyone into the castle," he warned her. "Cora can change shape and cast illusions. The lands just outside the walls should be safe enough if any more wanderers find their way here. There are spells out there now that will kill any Ogre and most other monsters setting foot on our land." He looked at Belle, trying (she thought) to determine if she could be hard-hearted enough to stand firm. "You can lower baskets over the wall with food, medicine, anything else they need," he conceded. "_But, don't let them in._"

He didn't need to tell her. Belle had lived under siege before. More than that, even if her role at the war councils had often been to be seen and not heard, she had still grown up being taught the basics of defending their lands. Men went away to fight wars. If enemies attacked while they were gone, it would have been up to her to keep them out. Belle remembered the story most children learned in their cradle of what happened to people who unwisely opened their doors to enemies.

_Little pig, little pig, let me come in._

Rumplestiltskin explained the defensive magic the castle had. "Once it's activated, it's tuned to your blood."

Belle's fear for Rumple turned to exasperation. "Why is it always blood? Why can't magic ever be tuned to my voice or my little toe or something?"

Rumplestiltskin grinned. "Exactly because that's how you feel about blood. It's an inner part of you, precious, death and life. Once these spells are set, _nothing_ is getting through here without your permission. Not even me."

"Not even. . . ? Rumple, don't you think I might find that a bit inconvenient? Doing without you for the next twenty-eight years or however long it takes for you to decide things are safe again?"

"If you see me—or something that looks like me—asking for entrance to the castle, go to this room. Make sure the door is secured. Invoke the protections I showed you for this place. Then, take out the dagger and summon me with it."

"What!? I can't—" Belle wanted to protest. It wasn't just that the dagger could kill him, it _enslaved_ him. Using it on him was vile.

And logical, she realized. Perfectly logical. It was the only way to sidestep all the defenses he'd told her about _and_ make sure what she let in was really him. "I'm handing it to you as soon as you're here," she said.

He gave her his mad smile, the gold steaks in his eyes glowing. "Just make sure it's me, dearie."

Small danger of that, she thought. The "protections" he'd mentioned for this place, once they were invoked, if anyone had managed to slip into the room—invisibly or with some other magic—they'd be killed.

Belle didn't like it. But, this was not the first castle she had helped defend against a remorseless enemy. And this room was the very heart of the castle's defenses. Anyone who made their way here to watch unseen while she brought out the most dangerous object in the fortress—perhaps this world—would not be an ally. Belle was enough of a soldier's daughter to understand that. "I'll make sure."

Then, Rumplestiltskin left. Belle tried not to worry about him, taking up the day-to-day running of the castle and finding out what it meant to be the Dark Lady.

The refugees weren't as frightened of her as they had been of Rumplestiltskin, but they stayed wary of her and her dogs—Rumplestiltskin had insisted she keep Damon and Pythias with her. Even if she weren't the Dark One's Dark Lady, Belle supposed two bear-sized puppies were reason to be wary around anyone.

Well, she was used to playing lady of the castle. There had been less awe when she walked through her father's keep, but they had still needed her to be something stronger than the dangers outside. She showed them, simply by being calm and unafraid, that there was hope. If these people feared her, they also saw her with the strength to keep them safe.

They also (rather tentatively at first) had begun to add the much feared sausages to their meals. Belle took it as a sign of trust—a peculiar one, as such signs go, but a sign nonetheless.

Mulan treated her as she always had, with alternating impatience and respect—although there seemed to be more respect these days, especially when they discussed danger and defense.

Gaston also seemed to . . . well, to _respect_ her. Which still ranked as one of the strangest—or unexpected—things to happen in Rumplestiltskin's castle. He also seemed to have accepted her as his liege lord. As she'd told Rumple, in her father's absence, she stood in Lord Maurice's place as Lady of the Marchlands. The knights and soldiers who had served him owed their loyalty to her. But, she had always known, had a day come when her father was gone and she had to assume that position in her own right, she would have had to fight to make them acknowledge her—and to go on, day after day, to accept her authority. Everyone would have expected her to marry Gaston and put him in charge.

And she would have. Because the people would be divided following a woman but they would have come together behind a man. Belle would do what was needed to keep her people strong and safe.

So, it was doubly strange to have Gaston accept her leadership now, to never slip and condescend or tell her some things were men's business and nothing to do with her. He had changed, and changed in ways she hadn't known he could.

He never took human shape where Aurora might see him.

Belle kept a gold ring by her, usually in her pocket. It was too big for her hand, even if she wore it on her thumb. Rumplestiltskin had given it to her before he left, looking apologetic. "You can give it to that freakish giant of yours," he said. "If he actually wants to stride around like an oversized troll, it will let him do it."

Belle lifted an inquiring brow. "By that, do you mean it will let him take his human shape when he wants? Or do you mean it will turn him into a giant or troll?"

"Is that a trick question, love? Because I'm not sure he was human to begin with. There's a number of species he could have in his ancestry. If you knew how quickly he adapted to being a dog—"

"Rumple. . . ."

"Yes, yes, he'll take his human shape. With no hidden tricks or catches. He can even keep his feet."

Belle wasn't sure if it would make things easier or worse if she gave it to him. She wasn't even sure Gaston would thank her for giving him the choice, not before Aurora was more settled in her grief.

It was her friendship with Aurora that seemed strangest of all. Despite not being true magic, the salve Belle slathered on her twice a day made the skin heal much quicker than anything Belle had ever seen (she wished she had half—a quarter—even a _tenth—_of Rumple's medical lore). Soon, she was taking the princess on short walks through the gardens and along the parapets, not unlike the walks Rumple had taken her on as she slowly regained her strength. They went slowly, giving the new grown skin a chance to stretch without tearing and protecting her carefully bandaged feet.

The two of them had tea together, most days. The refugees treated Aurora with deference. They'd eaten alongside her as they'd fled over the mountains but, now they were safe under a roof, the old rules seemed to be back in play. They were not comfortable breaking bread with a royal (or a Dark Lady) looking over them. Even Widow Pierce seemed to think she was better off elsewhere while the two sipped from delicate, china cups (never the chipped cup, of course. Belle kept that safe for when Rumplestiltskin returned).

Even Aurora didn't treat her as an equal. If she didn't actually think Belle outranked her, she still seemed to treat her like an older, wiser sister. But, she was comfortable enough to relax and speak freely around Belle. Around the refugees and even Mulan, Aurora seemed to treat conversation as a test full of trick questions and hidden traps. She chose each word carefully. Then, once it was out of her mouth, seemed to sit back and wait to see if it would explode in her face. Speaking to Belle, she was alternately blunt, then embarrassed by her bluntness—but not frozen by it.

"It's because I know I say the wrong thing," she told Belle. "My mother and tutors were always drilling me on what to say and when to say it, and I still never got it right."

"It's hard," Belle allowed. "Always being in public." She had felt the scrutiny as Lord Maurice's daughter. She could only imagine what it would be like as Princess and Heir of the South Kingdom. She also knew there was more it than that in Aurora's case, but wasn't sure how to say it.

But, Aurora said it for her. "It's not just that," Aurora said. "I . . . I'm not clever with people. It's like when two ladies in the court—they were newcomers, about my age—started a quarrel. It all began when one of them said the other had a very nice dress, and that lady told the first she had lovely hair. They've been mortal enemies ever since. Mother was upset, since she'd left me with them. She said I should have found some way to head it off." Aurora sighed. "Mother would have.

"But, I didn't even know what the quarrel was about, even though I'd been there. I had to ask someone else to explain it. It seems the first lady had noticed a small rip in her skirt when it was too late to go back and change. She thought she'd been able to hide it with some pins, but the second lady was looking right at the damaged spot when she made her comment and giggled at the end of it.

"The second lady had burnt some of her hair leaning over a candlestick—I think that's why she was looking for someone else to go after. The burnt part had been trimmed and worked very cleverly in with the rest of her hair. Just not cleverly enough. The first lady was looking right at it when she said how nice her hair was."

Aurora shook her head. "That's the way people talk all the time. With layers. And they think everyone else talks the same way. Even when they don't."

And people got trapped on the layers they didn't see. "I'd call Rumplestiltskin the master of layers," Belle said. "Yet, you seem to like him. And trust him."

Aurora thought that over—even with Belle, she rarely gave answers without thinking them over. Belle suspected her of looking for layers.

"I don't think I understand Rumplestiltskin," Aurora said. "But . . . he's clever. And he likes letting people know he's clever. He likes catching them on the hook of a deal that they never saw, even when it was right there in front of them.

"I'm not clever. People catch me on hooks all the time. And blame me for not seeing them. I told him that when we made a deal. Tricking me wouldn't be clever." Her brows quirked together, a little like Belle's did when she was trying to puzzle something out. "People . . . never believe me when I say that. They think I'm trying to trick them. Or they _do_ believe me and think that means I can't do any of the things I _can_ do. Rumplestiltskin just nodded and made a deal with me.

"You're like that, too," Aurora said. "I can tell you this and you don't treat me like an idiot or think I'm making it up to trick you." She stopped. Aurora's expressions were hard to read most of the time. Belle found it easier sometimes to watch Gaston out of the corner of her eye, if he were there in his dog form. He seemed to smell or feel or just know through other dog senses what she was feeling, and he was much worse at hiding it.

Gaston wasn't there—there were things Aurora said during their teas that Belle didn't think he should eavesdrop on—but Belle didn't need him to see the raw ache in Aurora's eyes. "I never told Philip," she said. "He—he loved me, you know. Really loved me. I . . . it hurts, just knowing he's gone. Knowing . . . he thought we had true love. He _wanted_ that, wanted to believe it. I—I didn't want him to know it wasn't. That's what I made a deal for, to protect Roland and to keep Philip from finding out I wasn't his true love.

"Rumplestiltskin made a spell to let Philip break the curse Maleficent put on me—well, not break it. He said it would restore me to the state I'd been in when the spell was cast if Philip kissed me.

"But, if I'd left it alone, he wouldn't have been able to wake me. He would have had to leave me in the castle. My injuries were what slowed us down. They should have left me behind, but Philip wouldn't allow it. If it hadn't been for that, the Ogres would never have caught up with us. They wouldn't have killed him."

She began to sob then. Belle held her, not sure if it was the right thing to do. Aurora had said once there was a language in the way people touched or didn't touch each other, embraces, blows, and everything between. It was another of the things that confused her. Maybe holding her while she cried was just another one of the strange demands people made, and it was only making things worse. But, Belle couldn't do anything else.

And Aurora clung to her, as if Belle were the one solid thing in a storm-tossed sea. "It hurts," she said between sobs. "Why does it _hurt_ so much? I cared about him. And he died. But, people die. Why does it have to _hurt?_"

Belle made soothing sounds and rocked her, waiting till Aurora's tears eased—they hadn't stopped—before she answered her. "When people enter our lives, that's what they do. They become part of us. When they're gone, it's the same as a burn or a lost limb. You feel what's gone, and you feel the wound that was made when it was torn away."

"I didn't love him," Aurora said. "That was all he wanted, and I couldn't give it to him."

"You cared so much you made a deal with Rumplestiltskin. You loved him. It may not have been the love you thought he wanted, but you loved him. You still love him. That's why it hurts."

Belle's words had stilled Aurora's agony even if they hadn't ended it. "It still doesn't make sense," she said. "You lose people. It's part of life. It shouldn't tear me apart like that."

Belle smoothed Aurora's hair. How did you explain why losing someone you loved hurt? She thought of the many injuries she'd treated during the Ogre Wars. Some had nothing to do with Ogres, just with trying to survive while fleeing through storms and weather Ogres didn't even notice. "When people have frostbite, it goes numb," Belle told her. "When you warm them up again, if it's not too late to save the limb, the pain is terrible. It's like being burned and attacked all over with pins and needles—not the tingling feeling. It's like being jabbed all over with sharp pins or bits of glass. But, it's a sign there's something to be saved and it's coming back to life. I don't understand it, either, but I know the pain you're feeling is like that. It's the sign of something healing, not something being destroyed."

"I just wish—I wish he could have had what he wanted. And I wish he could have seen Roland before he died. It meant so much to him, to have a son."

Belle thought of Rumplestiltskin. Rumple and his son, Bae. She thought of her own father and wondered if she would ever see him again (and how would he react when he learned who she had married? Perhaps, she thought wryly, she should let Gaston tell him. It would let her father know what she'd done and that her first fiancé wasn't going to fight it. And Papa might actually listen to Gaston, she thought. . . .).

"Yes," Belle said. "It would have. But, Philip saved your life and Roland's. That meant even more to him, knowing you would live."

"He didn't know," Aurora said, smearing the tears off her face with the back of her hand. "He only hoped."

"Hope's enough," Belle said. And it wasn't just words. She thought of her time in Regina's prison. She'd held onto hope even when she didn't know what she was hoping for, just holding onto her belief that not giving up would make a difference when the time came. "Sometimes, that's all any of us have. And it's enough."

That was when Widow Pierce came running in. "My lady! Your highness! It's Prince Philip! He's alive!"

X


	16. Ozymandias

_**Note: **__I wasn't happy with the last chapter and its lead into this one. The next chapter that would have set this one up was even worse. So, here we go, in medias res._

_Special thanks to Rhonwen for reading this and helping me out._

Rumplestiltskin lay back on the sheepskin rug, feigning sleep. It was long after midnight but some hours still till dawn. The fire had burnt down to red embers. The only light came from the moon shining through the open window.

He could hear her moving around in the dark. Making her decision, was she? A very foolish one, he thought. He opened his eyes to the narrowest slits, watching her.

She was beautiful. He had to admit that. Her long, brown hair cascaded down her shoulders. Her skin was as pale as the moonlight itself. She glowed in it, vibrantly alive.

He heard her sigh, soft and regretful.

Foolish woman.

She came back to him and knelt down beside him. She ran a hand through his hair with something like sadness. Lying to herself, he thought. He wanted to laugh at her. Instead, he waited till he saw the red glint of the firelight mixing with the white reflection of the moon on the blade in her hand as she lifted it upward over his heart.

Rumplestiltskin smiled, eyes still closed. "I have something you want."

The blade stilled. She frowned, red lips in a perfect curve against marble skin. "I'm about to take everything you have, Rumple," Cora said.

His smile widened, like a cat catching a mouse. "Not this. Not all my . . . gifts are part of the curse, Cora. This was a deal."

Cora lowered the blade slowly, as she considered. She let it rest against his chest, just above his heart. "If I ordered you to give it to me?"

"No good, love. It wasn't that kind of deal."

"Oh? And what kind was it?"

"Your daughter came to see me when I was in my cage. Poor, sad, lonely child. She'd tried to cast the curse but couldn't quite do it. She _begged_ me to help her. One. Last. Time. It would have melted a heart of stone, Cora, the poor thing's pleas. Not that you would have cared. But, I, alas, am not made of such sturdy stuff—"

"What was your price, Rumple?"

"Oh, such a simple thing, such a _tiny _thing. Just a little favor between friends." He opened his eyes wide, knowing how the yellow streaks in them glowed in the darkness. "In that world, she must do whatever I say—she must do _my_ bidding. But, only if I _ask_. If I command, she can ignore me the way she does everyone else. Clever, don't you think?" He did not mention _please._ No reason to tell all the details.

"Hmm, and she agreed because she thought she could make you a man who would command instead of ask in that world, couldn't she? I assume the curse allowed such subtlety?"

"Oh, yes. Not that your sweet child realized that till I made her to think about it. Not the most _subtle_ of minds, our dear Regina."

Cora sighed. "She's her father's child. I really should have taken you up on your offer, Rumple, all those years ago. I won't say Regina's a disappointment, but she needs a mother's hand to guide her. She just can't manage on her own. With a different father . . . well, too late now."

Rumple raised a hand to her cheek, caressing it, as if he didn't even notice the dagger resting against his scales. Cora's skin was as flawless as the day he'd met her, all those years ago. It was the first thing she'd asked for when she showed him the dagger in her hand, to restore her youth and beauty—but not, she added, to touch her memories. He would not make her forget who she was or what she was doing.

Or, he thought bitterly, what the dagger in her hand could do.

Then came her second request.

He could have fought it, he realized. Her wording left room for that. Obeying, he still wasn't bound to act with . . . enthusiasm.

But, he thought—he hoped she was testing how strong the dagger was. He had to obey, she knew that. She didn't have to know that he could obey in his own way—not till he struck. She didn't have to know she couldn't command his tongue. He could speak—or lie—as he pleased. Within limits. He couldn't lie about the dagger or the curse. He couldn't lie about what he could and couldn't do with his power. He couldn't even lie about whether or not he'd fulfilled her commands.

But, he could lie about everything else.

Rumplestiltskin didn't doubt Cora knew he wanted her to pay for this. But, he hoped she also didn't doubt the desire and lust he let show in his eyes as he looked at her were just as real (so long, he thought, as she didn't know what he really hungered for—that it was hunger for her blood and nothing else that brought that gleam to his eye).

He didn't lie, now, when he spoke about her daughter. But, that was only pragmatism. If she didn't catch him in a lie—if she didn't know he could hold back or twist truths as he pleased—he still had an advantage. "Having seen Regina on her own these past years, I have to agree. Still, you made your choice." He forced himself to look just slightly wistful behind his cat's smile. He caressed her cheek again. He let himself remember the daughter he'd seen, the one who'd never been born, let something like sadness into his voice. "Do you regret it?"

"Every day," she whispered. Cora toyed with the dagger, undecided. "Regina really made that deal with you?"

"She did."

"And there's no way you can pass that power to me?"

"None. The terms were quite specific."

"Sometimes, Rumple, you're too clever for your own good." She put the dagger aside. "You're not to touch that. You understand?"

"Oh, wouldn't dream of it." The power of the curse wouldn't allow it, with or without Cora's commands. He_ couldn't_ take the dagger from whoever held it. A minor point and not one he saw as particularly useful, but every scrap of knowledge he could hold back was an advantage to him. It had to be.

She leaned down and kissed him. Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, imagining the sweet taste of Cora's blood when he crushed her like a dry leaf in his hands, and returned it with passion.

"_Oh,_" Cora said when she came up for air. "I've missed you, Rumple."

"I'm surprised Henry survived your . . . attentions . . . for so long. How many years were you married?"

"Poor Henry. There were some things he simply wasn't up to. I did try to keep him alive, you know."

"Really? Whatever for?"

"A royal prince in the household adds to its consequence. And he could look after Regina for me. What about you? I heard something about that little maid you were keeping?"

He would kill her. Somehow, he would kill Cora before letting her near Belle. Somehow. "Innocence can make an interesting change." Magic is emotion, he'd told her once. He'd told her of the moment he went back to, the men who'd threatened his son, the things he'd imagined doing them. He imagined them now with Cora in their place. He poured all of that feeling into the knowing, hungry smile he gave her. And he lied. "Destroying innocence can be . . . interesting, too."

"Oh? And does she have any innocence left?"

"A little. Enough. Another aspect of the curse, once we reach that world. Time will be my toy to play with. I can break her over and over again, crush that innocence of hers. Then, restore it and start again."

"Hmm, that reminds me, Rumple, why _aren't_ you there? Not that I'm not delighted to have you here, but it does surprise me."

He didn't pretend to smile this time, barring his brown fangs. "Your daughter played one trick too many. I was careless with my toys. Regina got ahold of the girl." The truth. Assume Cora had enough of the truth about Belle to catch outright lies. "I suppose I angered her with that deal of mine." Because she thought she'd already taken her mother's heart, the heart Rumple had meant for her to use in the curse. Better for them all that way. But, she had had to use Henry's. Or give up all thought of getting what she wanted. "So, she decided to kill her to teach me a lesson."

"A lesson you weren't supposed to remember once you'd reached that world. That hardly seems effective."

"No, but it was safe." He let himself growl like a beast. Cora could see this anger. So long as she thought it was his pride and his greed Regina had offended, not any feelings he had for Belle. "She meant to _kill_ her. The girl was _mine. _To do as I pleased with. And Regina _stole_ her from me. Do you think I'd let that stand?"

"And, for that, you gave up your chance to find your son?"

He rolled his eyes. "You think I'm so self-sacrificing? You flatter me, love. No, with the deal we made, the curse I gave her, Regina and I are _linked_. I can follow her through when the time comes. Until then, Regina will just have to cope with life without me." He grinned. "By now, I imagine she's looking desperately for me. That world will replay itself. Oh, small things will change from day to day. But, not enough. By now, she must be going mad with ennui—and because no one knows she's won. They're trapped and miserable. But, they don't know it. And they don't know she's done it to them. There's only so much your enemies' suffering can do for you. Especially when they don't know they're suffering."

"And, yet, that's what you have planned for your maid."

If there was one thing Rumplestiltskin knew how to do, it was look horribly, obnoxiously pleased with himself. "_I_ have more imagination than Regina. Can't you see it, Cora? The girl will wake up. Something will tell her to fear me while something else will tell her I'm just the harmless, old man she works for, one who's helped her family and looked out for her. She'll ignore the instincts that tell her she's a small mouse and I'm a cat getting ready to play my games with her. Even when I start to play them, even when she _hurts_, she'll still think I mean well. Until she doesn't. I can spin that out in a thousand ways, believe me.

"And, every time, no matter how many times I've broken her before, she'll trust me when we start over again. Can't you just see it?"

And it was true, he thought. Belle trusted him when it was the last thing she should do. She would follow him into hell—she _had_ followed him into it. And, in return, he had left her to suffer in Regina's prison. He'd let her guards torture her and leave her to die.

Worst of all, after he'd finally gotten around to finding the broken, scattered pieces Regina had left of her and put them back together, he'd kept her by him where Cora could find her—find her and take an interest.

So, everything he'd said to Cora was true. Even though he hadn't believed it. Even though he thought he'd changed. He'd thought he wasn't a monster, not to Belle, that he'd keep her safe from the dangers he'd unleashed on this world.

Dangers like Cora.

He'd smelled Belle's blood on the dagger.

He smiled at Cora as he pulled her into his embrace, not waiting for her command.

Somewhere, Belle was safe, he told himself. Somewhere, Belle was still protected. She had to be.

And he would destroy Cora before she could change that. Even though she held his dagger. Even though she was already wondering if she really needed him alive.

He imagined Cora with the curse. Zoso had grown weary of the terrors he visited on his victims. Rumple . . . felt regret. Sometimes. For some of them.

Cora as Dark One could slaughter worlds with nothing but an amused smile on her face.

She would kill Regina. He could see that. If the monster Cora was now could see the monster she would become, even she would back away from it.

But, she would never regret it once it happened.

If he stopped Cora, he saved Regina. Not that either of them would thank him.

The ironies of the universe. He _had_ to save Regina.

And he had to save Aurora, Belle's somber-faced kinswoman who struggled so hard to be wise. And save an infant prince named in honor of him. And three children who had already fought their way out of one death trap and didn't deserve to fall into another. And all the rest of the people Belle had made him open their doors to. And two bear-sized puppies and a large dog. Not to mention the cows and sheep and chickens and the rest of the livestock.

And Belle. He had to save Belle. He had believed she was dead before, but he wouldn't believe it again. Not ever. Not even if Cora held the dagger that he knew Belle would die to defend and he could smell her blood on the blade.

She had to be alive because couldn't fail to save her this time.

X

**Note: **This chapter gets its title from the poem _Ozymandias._

_I met a traveller from an antique land  
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone  
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,  
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown  
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command  
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read  
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,  
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.  
And on the pedestal these words appear:  
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:  
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'  
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,  
The lone and level sands stretch far away". _

Because Rumple is identifying with the once unconquerable Ozymandias whose epitaph is "_Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!_"


	17. Night, and the Sky Unfamiliar

_**Note: **__Hook is quite villainous in this without anything that really looks like a redeeming quality. Thought I should warn you. This chapter should more or less explain events in the last one._

_Also, this chapter's title was taken from a poem in the book Norstrilia by Cordwainer Smith. Although credited to an Anthony Bearden, I'm told it's actually by Cordwainer Smith (or, since that was also a pen name, by Paul Linebarger)_

_**Night, and the Sky Unfamiliar**_

_The stars of experience have led me astray._

_The pattern of purpose was lost on my way._

_Where was I going? How can I say?_

_The stars of experience have led me astray._

"The dagger controls you," Hook said when he finally began answering Rumplestiltskin's questions. "Pity I didn't know that when I had it. You'd be the one in chains, not me." He gave his manacles a rattle.

Rumplestiltskin, putting the blood-stained tools Cora had given him aside, didn't interrupt now he'd finally gotten him talking, though several snide comebacks came to mind.

Not the least of which was Hook was mistaken if the thought Rumplestiltskin wasn't in chains.

__X

Cora had taken the dagger from Hook easily enough, just snatching it out of his hands. He'd expected that when he'd taken her up on her offer of help. A weapon that could kill the Dark One, of course the witch would want it. He just hadn't known she'd want it _before_ they got around to killimg him—just as he just hadn't known the other ways it could be used.

The princeling, Philip (not that Hook knew his name, then), had still been alive when Cora had him brought in, hard as that was to believe. Even Hook couldn't suppress a sympathetic wince at the sight of those injuries. He'd probably run the man through for mercy's sake if it were up to him—or go into another room where he didn't have to look at him. But, Cora needed the not-quite-corpse and she needed Hook to stick around while she did whatever it was she did.

He was still surprised when the not-yet-dead-man lying on the work table managed the reach up and grabbed him. "My wife. . . ." he wheezed. He struggled for air before gasping, blood tinged spit bubbling up on his lips. "Find her. Save her." This was followed by a gurgling cough. "_Please. . . ._"

Hook pushed him away, breaking free. "Right, mate, save it for someone who cares." He looked over at Cora. "What do you want with him? Don't tell me controlling his heart will do any good. Or do you just like corpses?"

Cora smiled as if she got a joke Hook had missed. "You'd be surprised." She reached into Philip's chest and tore it out. Philip spasmed, a look of shock on his face. Then, he dropped back, dead.

"Thought you needed him alive," Hook said. "Wasn't that why you made the big fuss about getting him? 'He's no good to me dead.' How many times did I have to listen to that speech?"

Cora held up the red heart. Whatever it was that magically transformed them had happened. It looked like a red gem in her hand. And it pulsed.

"He's alive enough," Cora said. "He won't die now. Or not completely. Not till we're done with him." She brought out a white knife carved from bone and set to work.

So Hook stayed. And watched. While Cora did what she did, cutting and sewing.

She had taken Hook's blood earlier. Not asking, of course, because where's the fun in that? Just calling him over and plunging that same knife into his wrist. She'd healed the wound when she was done, telling him he was a whiner. Now, she took the blood she'd collected, mixing it with Philip's—there was plenty of that. She twirled the knife through the bowl, and lifted out red threads she used to bind the pieces together. A trick the Crocodile had taught her? So much of his magic had to do with spinning.

With the blood that was left, she painted marks on her creation. Hook had no idea what they meant. Some kind of magic, obviously. Probably just as well he didn't know more than that.

Cora held up the finished work, admiring it instead of being sick. It looked something like a cloak. In a flayed, mutilated sort of way. Talk about something only a mother could love. . . . "Now, what do you do with it?"

"I don't do anything. _You_ wear it."

"Are you out of your bloody mind? Not in a hundred years."

Cora only laughed and threw the thing at him. It spread out, moving almost like a manta ghosting through the sea. Not that any mantas he'd ever seen were blood red.

He tried to duck, pulling out his sword and hoping the thing could be cut to pieces, whether or not it could be killed. But, it ignored his blade and settled around him, cold and wet. Hook felt it pressing against him and, then, felt it _burrow_ beneath his skin.

When he lifted up his hands, trying to claw at the stuff, he realized he had two. His hook was gone. "Cora, what was that thing? What did you do to me?"

Cora laughed again. Suddenly, instead of the blood-stained knife, she hat a mirror in her hand. She held it up for him to see. "I turned you into Philip. What do you think?"

Hook stared at the reflection. Philip's face stared back. "What, and you couldn't find a less disgusting way of doing this? I've seen you change your own face often enough."

"That has limits," Cora said. "Ones Rumplestiltskin would know how to protect against. Animals would smell what you really were. Magical protections wouldn't be fooled either. And people would notice when you made mistakes. Which you would. You didn't even know his name, did you?"

"Philip of the North," Hook snapped. Then, he stared at the remains on Cora's work table. How had he known that?

Cora nodded. "I told you, it was important he be alive when I started this. Alive enough. You really don't want to know what a dead skin would do to you."

Later, he would learn that he didn't want to know what a live skin would do to him, either. When he held the dagger in his hand, his only thought had been to escape with it. There were more people—and things that weren't people—trying to kill him right then than he had any desire to face. He'd grabbed the amulet Cora had given him, calling on her—and found himself back in her workroom.

Hook had planned this moment out. He wasn't just going to _give_ the knife to Cora. The Crocodile was _his_ prey—and a magical dagger that could kill the Dark One ought to make short work of any witch, no matter what she'd done to protect herself. Or so he'd thought.

But, when he first arrived at the Dark One's castle, his only thought was to get in and get it. Unfortunately, the same Belle who had been the queen's prisoner was now mistress of this pile of stone—in more sense than one, Hook thought, given how slavishly devoted she was to the monster. If only Hook had had time to teach her a thing or two. He could have made her forget about that crippled snake fast enough. Milha certainly had—except when making some joke about her old husband's inadequacies.

But, this woman, when he'd met her—chained up and trapped in a dungeon—instead of responding to his "rescue" with the expected relief and gratitude (and, filthy and smelly though she'd been at the time, Hook had taken one look at her and decided he'd give her a chance to clean up and show that gratitude in full before he got rid of her), asked _questions. _ Not only that, she picked holes in his story—and it was a good story. He'd used it dozens of times: Your father/mother's in danger. Come with me, now, and we'll save him/her. You're the only one who can.

You could get people to hand over almost anything once you'd told them that. He remembered one young woman whose father had trusted her with the key to his treasury. _She'd_ been grateful. They'd had a fun time of it, too, before he had to sell her off after that card game. She'd wept and begged, he remembered. Why was it women could never understand things like debts of honor? Well, Milha had understood. He remembered how she'd laughed when he told her that story.

Any other woman he was sure he could have charmed into opening the gates to him. But, Belle had been ordered to keep out all strangers, no matter what their tale—and far be it from her to even _think_ of disobeying.

Cora had expected this and had given him the tools he'd need, but it galled him she'd been right.

At least that Mulan girl had come out. She'd actually climbed down a rope to him when they were sending him supplies. She'd been furious at how "Philip" was being treated.

Hook had to be grateful for Cora's cloak, then. The girl was a warrior who had fought alongside Philip for months and helped him rescue his "true love"—the wife Philip had babbled about at the end. Mulan, Hook realized, was in love with Philip. Normally, Hook would have taken full advantage of that, but the memories he caught of Philip's told him Mulan would have caught on at once if he had. He pretended not to notice the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him or to show that he thought her anger over his being shut out was anything but outrage for a friend. He also managed to keep from yawning while she went on about the baby Aurora had finally had and what a beautiful boy and didn't he look just like his father.

And he was rewarded, though he didn't know it then, when Mulan gave him the lock of hair Aurora had sent. Aurora, unlike Mulan, wouldn't come scaling down the walls—she probably couldn't, Mulan admitted. And she had the baby to look after. It wasn't as if she could leave him behind (Hook managed not to roll his eyes at that declaration).

But, he'd appreciated it that night after Mulan was asleep in the tent she'd set up for them (one of the supplies from the castle). He'd managed to slip a sleeping potion into her food—no poison, Cora had said. Magical defenses tended to notice people dying on the front doorstep. Then, out of sight of any watching eyes (they'd need the eyes of an owl, but this was the Crocodile's castle. Someone there might have them). He'd tied her and gagged her. Then, he'd invoked the spell Cora had given him.

She'd gone to her daughter's castle after the curse. She'd sifted through the rubble, trying to find some kind of useful odds and ends. Naturally, she'd used magic, since sifting through stone by stone would have been tedious even for her.

Cora's prize had been some bloodstained rags.

"Going to do a bit of cleaning?" Hook asked when he saw the triumphant look on her face.

"That servant girl you told me about," Cora said. "The one Rumplestiltskin bought in the Marchlands, this is _her_ blood."

"Regina finally got tired of her chess piece, did she?"

"She may have survived," Cora said. "There are traces of his magic, here. He may have come for her."

"Or he may have killed her himself," Hook said, thinking of Milha. "And serve her right. He doesn't like it when what he thinks is his wanders off on its own."

Cora only laughed.

But, she'd brought out the blood soaked rags before sending him to the castle. "Whatever defenses Rumplestiltskin has set," she told him. "This blood should help. The castle knew her as a rightful resident. Even if she's dead, these should help with the right spells."

And Cora had given him the spells.

But, when he tried to cast it, it failed.

X

Later,as Rumplestiltskin drew the tale out of him during the long, slow time he was killing him, he would recognize how Belle had been protected. Cora was clever, but every stone in his castle knew that Belle was to be protected. The touch of her blood, the sense of her being wounded, would only have strengthened its resistance to anything trying to breach its defenses. Even if every last barrier and spell he had created had fallen, the wedding ring on her hand would have shielded her from anything Cora could possibly trust Hook with.

X

Hook had paced and fumed, trying to think what to do. While he was doing it, Mulan had begun to stir. Another problem. He'd tied her up so as not to risk an enemy at his back, if she'd come to while he was storming the castle. It was a pity _she_ wasn't still inside. She wasn't a "rightful resident," as Cora put it. The castle tolerated her and protected her while she was inside. But, the girl herself admitted she couldn't get back in after leaving, not without Belle's permission. But, inside, he might have been able to get her to do _something_—

And, then, he'd been ready to kick himself. Belle wasn't the only person in the castle—and Mulan had given him a lock of Aurora's hair.

He pulled out the parchment Cora had given him and invoked the spell again using a different name. This time, he felt it take hold.

If it had caught Belle, everything would be easy. As soon as Belle was asleep, if she wasn't already, the spell would draw her down to the doors of the castle. His plan was to tell her Rumplestiltskin was the other side, knocking, waiting to be let in.

X

Rumplestiltskin had allowed himself a small moment of amusement at that. Belle had sworn not to let him in—even if it appeared to be him, even if he was desperate—not by the front gate. At best, the only thing this spell could have done was make her test if it was really him by following his instructions to get the dagger and summon him with it.

And wouldn't Hook have had a pleasant surprise, then?

X

He called Aurora.

He felt her resist the instructions he gave. She wouldn't open the door. Belle had explained her reasons for refusing to open them and Aurora had agreed. Even if Philip was Philip (and Aurora was the one who had pressed the lock of hair into Mulan's hands before she took the rope and climbed down the wall), spells could be attached to a person. Hearts could be torn out to enslave them against their wills. No, she would not let him in.

Hook remembered the baby.

_My son,_ he said silently. _My boy, bring him to me, Aurora. Let me see him. Please. You won't be coming out. You won't invite me in. You'll only stand by the door and show him to me._

X

Hook could feel Aurora standing on the other side of the doors. She _wanted_ to open them. She was _trying_ to open them.

They just wouldn't open, not for her.

Hook was ready to scream. He was _so_ close. After centuries of effort, after surviving Neverland and its demon-prince, after pledging his soul to Cora (the latest in a long line), he was almost in reach of his goal, only to be blocked at the very end.

Pan. He found himself thinking of Pan. What he wouldn't give for that demon's shadow cutting power, right now. Or Cora's power to command hearts.

Or if only he could think of some way to get Aurora to put a knife in Belle. If she was dead, wouldn't that make it so someone else could open the gates? Or what if her blood was smeared on them? Blood, hearts, shadows, magic seemed to thrive on things like that. Her blood didn't work from the _outside, _but, if he smeared it on the _inside_ . . . .

_The Lady Belle is of the blood of the North Kingdom._

Cora had made the blood-cloak because she said it would let him access Philip's knowledge. He'd recognized Mulan and known what to say to her to make her believe he was Philip. But, it only came in bits in pieces, in response to seeing a familiar face or hearing a certain question.

Now, it came because he'd thought about blood and Belle and Aurora.

Belle's grandfather had been the half-brother of Aurora's great-grandmother. _They shared the same blood._

Philip's kinship was more distant but he also had that blood.

_And Hook was wrapped in a cloak made from Philip's blood and flesh._

Hook took on of the rags soaked with Belle's blood and put it up against the doors. He pressed his other, cloak-made hand against the wood.

X

And that, unfortunately, had been a good idea, Rumplestiltskin thought, confusing the castle. Blood inside, knowing it was wounded, desperate to get out. Blood outside, claiming it could protect, trying to get in. The spells Cora gave him had been good enough for that.

It wasn't as satisfying as you'd think, having a successful student.

X

Only one question: what would make Aurora do what he wanted?

Cora's spell could trick but it couldn't compel. He couldn't make Aurora do anything against her will. So, how was he supposed to get her to do _this?_

He cast the thought at Philip's memories, hoping for an answer. He caught glimpses of Aurora. She was a grave faced princess. She listened in council meetings with a pensive look engraved on her face, as if each word she heard were a puzzle piece she had to place properly.

He knew she had bargained with assassins holding a knife to her throat to save Philip.

Not herself. Philip.

_Aurora,_ Hook sent. _Aurora, my love, I'm dying. _Yes, that ought to be good. _I need you. You're the only one who can help me. I'm trapped. There's magic in the castle. I'm not asking you to let me in. Just open the door. The magic is waiting to come out, to free me. Open the door is magic. You can open it with blood. Your blood. I need your blood on the door. _

Hook had spent enough nights going from one tavern to another with the crew to know what the mind believed when it was only half-awake wasn't the same as what it would believe in the morning. He hoped Aurora, hearing the words of the spell, was far enough gone to accept that story.

X

_Blood._

Aurora looked down. Philip-Roland was in her arms. She knelt down on the floor, putting him on the cold stones beside her. He fretted, opening his eyes, and began to wail.

"Shh," Aurora hushed. "Just a moment. This won't be long."

She'd left her knife in her room but she didn't need it. She had raced down here, not caring about her burns and the scabs on her feet, not caring even as she felt them tear and bleed. Now, she only needed to reach down and touch them to get blood on her hands. She gathered up Philip-Roland and went to the door.

She placed her hand on the wood. . . .

X

Rumplestiltskin listened as Hook finished his tale.

He appreciated, if the pirate didn't, how much effort Cora had put into the magic behind that attack. If he'd known what she was doing and had struck then instead of skulking about, trying to spy out what she was up to, she'd have been dead before Hook ever touched the dagger.

If Hook had failed her, she might have died anyway. When she'd used the dagger to command Rumplestiltskin to return her youth and beauty and _health_, she must have been perilously close to the end of her strength.

It wasn't just lives, of course, though she'd burned through enough of those. The Dark Castle could withstand an attack a thousand times as powerful.

No, he had to give Cora this: she understood how he thought. What she hadn't known about his defenses, she had guessed, and she had shaped her attack along the one vulnerability (because all magic has a vulnerability, all curses can be broken, all spells can be unmade).

Even there, he'd outthought her. Belle was not vulnerable to Cora's spell.

He just hadn't thought of Aurora.

Cora hadn't either, which was a small comfort. And Hook hadn't told her how he'd finally broken in.

The princess had unique weaknesses to that spell, he realized. The sleeping curse left her open to attacks through dreams. The amulet he'd given her only let her protect herself from their physical dangers, not the dreams themselves.

And he'd made other mistakes. He'd treated the refugees as potential dangers to _Belle_. He'd tried to limit their power to attack _inward_. He done barely anything about an attack aimed _outward_, at the castle's own defenses.

The door had opened. Even then, Hook hadn't been able to enter, not till he'd used the next-to-last of the bloody rags Cora had given him (and amounts of power that must have left Cora near death as she let him draw on her. If only Rumplestiltskin had known). Hook had thrown the scrap across the threshold, holding the other end. It was just long enough. Carefully, making sure his feet touched the stains, he used it as a bridge.

Then, he'd used the final rag, invoking the last of the spells Cora had supplied him with.

There was more to the tale than that. Hook had had to release his spell on Aurora to get through. She'd woken and screamed the alarm. Gaston had already been woken, smelling Aurora's blood. Hook had stabbed the girl as he threw her at the monster hound.

It had been a serious wound, life threatening, but not immediately fatal. "I thought he'd stay with her," Hook said. Philip's memories must have told him Gaston was a man. "But, he didn't. He came tearing after me."

Gaston must have been tempted, Rumplestiltskin thought. He knew, even if Philip had never figured it out—and even if Gaston still tried to pretend it wasn't true—that the young knight loved the princess. But, Gaston had fought in the Ogre Wars. He knew from experience when to ignore people being struck down around him—even people he cared for. His strategies might sometimes be brainless (walk up to the Dark One's gates and challenge him), but he knew a distraction when it was thrown in his face.

Hook insisted on giving far too many details on the battle that followed as the whole castle was roused against him. Most of it involved Hook running.

Cora had given him a sphere carved out of some black stone, he said. He'd put the very last of the bloody rags against it, seen the cloth burst into flames, and the orb start to glow, directing him.

Rumplestiltskin frowned. He knew stories of magical objects Reul Ghorm herself had never heard of. He didn't know this one.

Between the blood and its own powers, however, it had drawn Hook to the room with the dagger.

Belle had reached the room at nearly the same time Hook did, her own monster hounds flanking her, a sword in her hand.

Belle's blood. The memory of it was still hot in his mind. "She tried to stop you?" Rumplestiltskin said.

"Tried. I was just ahead of her. I thought the baby's blood would work just as well—"

"The baby's? Philip-Roland?"

"Is that his name? The girl's brat. I grabbed him when after I stabbed her. I thought his blood would work as well as hers." Rumplestiltskin's hands twitched over a flail but he didn't pick it up. Hook didn't notice. "But, it didn't. I had just enough time to get his blood on the painting frame, but it didn't do anything."

"You cut him? A baby?"

"Why not? Don't look at me like that. You think I haven't heard the stories, Crocodile? You skin children for their pelts, don't you? And take anything else you need for your spells."

"Oh, yes," Rumplestiltskin said, keeping his voice light. "I have warned people about that. So good of them to believe it." If there was irony in his voice, Hook was too wrapped up in his own grievances to hear it.

"I didn't want to kill him," he said. "That dog didn't pay any attention to the princess, but I suppose the baby might have been a distraction for the next guardian I ran into.

"But, that doxy of yours didn't give me a chance. She lunged at me, like some kind of berserker. What do you see in her, anyway?"

"She's different," Rumplestiltskin said. "At my age, novelty is hard to find."

"Hah! You just don't know where to look. There are always girls there with a few surprises, and most of them aren't trying to stick a knife into you."

"I'll bear it in mind. She lunged at you?"

"Oh, yes. But, she'd lost her head. If she'd kept it, she'd have skewered me. Instead she tried to grab the brat. Like I said, he wasn't dead yet. She did some kind of magic—did you teach her that, Crocodile, or has she been studying behind your back? Maybe that knife was meant for you. There was a blue glow, but it was all around the kid. I brought my sword down on her."

Rumplestiltskin had seen that sword and the magic worked into it. Cora had been careful to arm Hook with the most powerful weapon she could. And Belle had been expending some of the ring's protection on Philip-Roland, weakening her own defense. "What happened?"

"If felt like chopping iron-wood. But, there was blood. And she went down and didn't get up again. The frame got splattered and that compartment opened up. I grabbed the knife—got it just before those hellhounds reached me. Cora'd set up her transportation spell or whatever you call it. As soon as the dagger was in my hand, I got hauled back. And not before.

"I was back here. She took the dagger from me, and you know the rest."

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin said. "I do."

He was nearly finished with Hook by then.

Cora, of course, had decided the pirate knew too much—about the dagger and the Dark One's curse. She probably thought he knew too much about how to get past magical defenses, too, even if he barely understood the means Cora had used to help him.

"Take him and kill him," she ordered Rumplestiltskin. "Make it slow. And painful. But, make sure you tear out his heart at the end, and that's he's in a condition to appreciate what you're doing."

"And bring it to you?"

"No, just kill him. But, remind him that he tried to tear mine out, and I haven't forgotten. Then, crush it in front of his eyes."

Orders were orders, but Rumplestiltskin questioned Hook carefully while he carried them out. Hook didn't see the point of cooperating at first. He'd been standing there when Cora gave Rumplestiltskin his orders. Whatever he did, whatever he said, this wouldn't be quick and it wouldn't be painless.

It took time to convince him it could be quicker, and that the pain could be made to end.

Rumplestiltskin sat back, trying not to show any sign of what he felt as he finished. Hook was far too self-serving in his story. He'd stabbed Aurora—oh, but he hadn't _meant_ to kill her. He'd gutted a baby—but he hadn't died, had he? He'd brought his sword down on Belle. . . .

A magic sword. And whatever else Cora had strung on Hook before sending him into the lion's den. But, Belle had the ring. And other protections. She might have lived. And so might Aurora and her son.

If the child was dead, he was foresworn. He'd promised Aurora her son would be protected, would grow up and rule his parents' kingdoms.

If Aurora was dead, Belle would never forgive him. She'd taken a liking to her little cousin.

If Belle was dead. . . .

He couldn't think about that.

"I think I'm sorry," Rumplestiltskin said as he raised his hand towards Hook's chest. "If it's any comfort, I think I'd prefer to be killed by you instead of Cora." Hook, even with the Dark One's powers, would still be a fool, after all. And a very small minded one, at that. He'd leave a trail of blood and pain, but it would be a _small _one. And it wouldn't be long till some hero rose up and killed him.

"Tell me one more thing, and I'll end it. Who told you about the dagger?" A fairy, probably, Rumplestiltskin thought. They interfered where they had no business—and didn't care about collateral damage, like princesses and their infant sons, when it came to weakening him.

Hook grinned. "Funny you should ask. I met a boy. He was eager to tell me. Seems you met him before. You murdered his mother, and he wanted revenge."

Rumplestiltskin frowned. He'd killed his share—more than his share—but he preferred more subtle means these days.

"Really? I don't suppose you could be more specific? What was his name?"

Hook gave him a death's head grin. "Baelfire."


	18. The Bearer of Evil Tidings

**Note: **Sorry this one took so long. Originally, I was going to skip right over the "what happened next" and go right to what happened _after_ this scene. But, it kept falling apart (or it got gross. Cora's POV: ewww).

This chapter's title comes from Robert Frost's "The Bearer of Evil Tidings."

_The bearer of evil tidings,  
When he was halfway there,  
Remembered that evil tidings  
Were a dangerous thing to bear._

X

"Baelfire?" Rumplestiltskin repeated. He remembered his last meeting with his dead wife. _How could you leave Bae?_ he'd demanded. But, he hadn't said the whole name.

But, Milha must have mentioned him. She'd been with Hook seven years. Apparently, at least once, she'd mentioned her son she'd abandoned without a backward glance, the child who'd nearly died in the Ogre Wars while she couldn't be bothered to come check on him. And Hook had heard and remembered.

Or maybe Hook had just found his own sources since then. If he was going to die, now—so he must think—was his last chance.

"Baelfire," Hook said, relishing the name. "Your son, Crocodile. He knows what you did to his mother. He couldn't wait to tell me how to bring you down."

Rumplestiltskin cleaned the blood off one of the blades. No, Hook was lying about wanting him dead, he decided (not that he hadn't given the boy cause). If Bae had wanted him dead, he would have told the pirate everything, how the blade could control Rumplestiltskin and transfer his power.

"However did you meet him?" Rumplestiltskin kept his voice casual, as if he didn't care or didn't believe, while his mind raced. Even if Bae didn't want him dead—or not by Hook's hand—had the pirate met him? Or was this all a lie? Smee had known something about Baelfire and that he had been lost. He'd known that Rumplestiltskin sought a magic bean to cross worlds. If he hadn't known _why_ Rumplestiltskin sought it, he'd had enough pieces to make a good guess.

"Neverland," Hook said. "Pan's shadow brought him there, but we rescued him. I had him safe aboard my ship, but he was a brave, reckless lad. He insisted on taking chances. Once, when he tried to explore some of the island, Pan's little soldiers found him."

Pan's Shadow. . . . Yes, the story was possible. Pan was certainly a boy who was more than he seemed. . . . Unlike Rumplestiltskin, he had power to enter the world without magic.

If his Shadow had captured Bae, it would have been flying through the air with him. If Hook or his men _had_ seen him, they wouldn't have known who he was, even if they had been willing to risk Pan's wrath to rescue an unknown child. He looked at Hook, who had explained his casual gutting of Aurora's child. No, he wouldn't have raised a finger to rescue Bae. If Bae escaped, he'd escaped on his own. As for the rest of the tale—

"You found him," Rumplestiltskin said. "You recognized his name. Then, you tricked him into telling you my secrets. When you thought he'd told you everything, you sent him back to Pan." Setting down the scalpel he'd been polishing, he plunged his hand into Hook's chest, closing it around his heart. He squeezed. "Didn't you?"

Hook screamed.

"Excuse me, dearie?" Rumplestiltskin said, tightening his grip. "I don't think I quite heard that."

"_He left!_" Hook gasped. "He got away from Pan and left Neverland!"

Rumplestiltskin released him. "Amazing. I think you told the truth. I'm surprised it didn't get lost in your throat and choke you, being so unfamiliar with the way to your mouth." Rumplestiltskin leaned in close. "Today is your lucky day, dearie. I need someone to deliver a message for me, and there's a tiny, little loophole that will let you live to deliver it. But, only if you behave yourself. Which means you should start making funeral arrangements now, but I expect you're an optimist. Well, do we have a deal?"

"A—what?"

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. "A _deal_, an arrangement, a bargain potentially advantageous to both sides. Advantage to you: you wait a little longer to become a corpse. Advantage to me: I get to spread a bit of gossip through the world and don't have to feed what's left of you to the pigs—no, waite,that might poison the pigs, assuming they don't turn their nose up at you. Even pigs have standards. Well, I won't have to burn you to ashes and throw them down the privy. The stench might be worse than usual, but I dare say we'll live with it. Or cover it with lime. Deal or no deal?"

Hook wasn't the stupidest man in creation, but he was dazed and in pain. A decent man, Rumple thought, wouldn't take advantage of him. Rumplestiltskin would be sure to mention that to a decent man if he ever met one. "Wh-what do you want me to do?" Hook asked.

"I _told_ you: I have a bit of gossip to pass on. You're going to pass it."

Hook rallied a little. "I can't walk five feet, Crocodile, and there are quicker deaths than trying to leave this island—"

"It's a peninsula, dearie, except when the tide's in."

"This _island_, even if I could get off it, then tramping around waiting for one of the monsters out there to find me."

"Oh, there's worse than that waiting for you, _much_ worse. Let me explain this to you—and I'll try to use small words that won't burn out what's left of your brain. Cora said torture you. I've done that. Then, Cora said rip out your heart and crush if in front of you. Luckily, I already did that. Three hundred years ago. In case you've forgotten." Rumplestiltskin leaned in close, smiling, every brown fang showing. "That means _I've already done everything Cora ordered."_ You had to spell things out for Hook. He'd told him at the beginning he could carry out Cora's orders quickly—or not so quickly. Depending on what Hook told him. That part of the deal was done. Which meant—"I can do _whatever I want with you now_. The little games we've been playing? They're nothing. I've had _centuries_ since we last met to learn how to make someone _regret_ causing me trouble. Now, do want to make a deal with me and avoid all that, or shall we get back to what we were doing? And, this time, believe me, I won't be holding back."

Rumplestiltskin meant it. Normally, the only point to "worse than death" was to keep someone from being dead without the inconvenience of everyone thinking you'd gone soft. But, there were times when you needed to . . . _broaden_ a person's perspective.

"That wasn't the deal," Hook said. "I talk. You said you'd kill me quickly."

"Did I? I think I was a bit more careful in my wording. You can have a quick death. Whenever I decide to give it to you. Not that it matters. Do you really want to die? Would you like me to give you some choices how? I can snap your neck with my bare hands. I can cut off your head. Or would you prefer poison? There are ones that will make you feel like you're only falling asleep. Or there's another one. You'll feel happier than you ever have in your life. You'll die giggling your head off. Or something simpler? Perhaps drowning in a vat of wine? I'm sure you've come close to it a time or two in the past. This is your chance to go all the way.

"Or, I heal your wounds and send you on your merry way." He grinned. "_You can still have your chance for revenge, _if you live_._ Or you can give it up.

"Perhaps, I _won't_ throw your ashes down the privy. Perhaps, I can find a bit of worthless ground that no one will mind you poisoning and put a little tombstone over your bones, 'Here lies the sot, Killian Jones. He spent three hundred years going on about his revenge only to decide it wasn't worth the effort.' Hmm, perhaps not poetic enough.

"_There once was a pirate named Killian_

_Who swore he would see his foes bleed again._

_But, when it came to the fight,_

_He ran off in fright._

_From the smell of his pants, he had peed in them._

"No, too obvious. Never mind. I'll work on it. Or do we have a deal?"

Which is how Hook found himself standing outside Rumplestiltskin's castle, hoping to be let in.


	19. Eyes I Dare not Meet in Dreams

"Belle? Belle, can you hear me?"

Belle hurt. There was a terrible pain down her neck and shoulder. Her strength was gone. She just wanted to lie here and not move.

"Belle, sweetheart, please, you need to get up."

This was like her time with the queen's torturers when they had cut her open and left her for dead. Except. . . .

Except, that time, she had done everything she could to protect Rumplestiltskin, trying to hold back whatever knowledge they had been trying to tear out of her. This time. . . .

"Belle, please, you need to listen to me. Please, love, try. I know it hurts, but we both know how brave you are. You can do this."

The voice. It was Rumplestiltskin's voice. But, it couldn't be. Her eyelids felt like they were weighed down by sandbags, but, slowly, she managed to force them open and tried to focus on the man beside her. "Rumple . . . stilt . . . skin?"

The man sitting beside her did and didn't look like the Rumplestiltskin she knew. He wore poor, ragged clothes like the kind peasants wore in old tapestries. His hair had lost its curl, hanging softly around his face. His face. . . .

It was almost the face she had glimpsed for a moment when she first kissed him and his curse began to unravel. It was a lined, sad face—a human face. But, while she'd seen the _easing_ in his expression when the change began to wash over him—like the tension vanishing from the weapon as an archer unstrung his bow, but it was still a bow—a weapon. This was Rumplestiltskin as he might have been hundreds of years ago, before the Dark Curse. His face was gentle, meek. This wasn't the face of a man who laughed about ending wars and destroying Ogres—and he looked at _her_ as though he weren't sure if she was a lost lamb in need of rescue or wet cat who would claw the first fool who touched her.

But, he smiled at her when she said his name. "Hello, Belle. You had me frightened for a moment."

"You're . . . not Rumplestiltskin."

The sadness—and the gentleness—in his face became more pronounced. "Not the one you know, no, I'm not." He smiled wistfully. "I wish I had known you." The smile turned wry. "I think you would have done things much better in my place. I always wished I had your courage. . . ."

"I don't understand," Belle said. "Who are you?"

"A memory, an echo." He carefully helped her sit up. The movement didn't hurt the way she was sure it should, her neck and shoulder should burn like fire. . . .

"Does it hurt?" he asked, as if he'd read her thoughts.

Belle barely heard him, remembering what had happened, how she got these cuts on her back. "I failed him. I should have stayed away. My blood opened the lock. But, when I realized someone had gotten past the defenses, that he was heading to where the dagger was—"

"You assumed he could get it. Can you say you were wrong?" Wry amusement glinted in his eyes again. "I could tell you a story of a castle, long ago. A little smoke and fire, and everyone rushed out, leaving the most dangerous weapon they had for anyone to grab. If the defenders had had half your wit, neither of us would be sitting here, now."

Belle's mind was too exhausted to even try and make sense of that. "I don't understand what happened here," she said. "It was Philip. Except it wasn't. When I came at him with my knife, when the ring began to glow, he changed . . . he looked like the man who attacked me in Regina's tower."

"Then, I would guess he was the man who attacked you in Regina's tower the man who wasn't Rumplestiltskin told her with the same dry humor her husband could give to pointing out the obvious. "And, there must have been magic to make him look like Philip, magic that couldn't hold when the disguise was cut, magic your ring could unravel."

"Gaston said he knew his smell."

"Appearance isn't the only thing a spell can alter. You knew this. That's why you didn't let him in."

"It wasn't enough."

"It was. The Curse of the Dark One twists whatever it can, oaths, deals—" She could see sadness in his eyes, "—a father's love for his son. But those things still make it weaker when they're held onto than when they're let go. There's a child who'll live because of you, and there are oaths that weren't broken because of you. Hope isn't lost because of you."

She wanted to argue. They were on a precipice because of her. But, he leaned in. Shyly—it was almost like the first time they'd kissed, when Rumplestiltskin seemed to be trying to figure out what she was doing because he _knew_ she couldn't be kissing him—he leaned forward and let his lip brush against hers. It was such a light touch, like the feather touch of air, she could almost doubt it had happened. The smile he gave her was diffident—more like a servant approaching a queen than a man looking at a lover—but not afraid.

"A warning, sweetheart," he told her. "The dagger's curse is like a flame, and it sees every human weakness as dry grass. The things inside you that are good and strong, those are green and growing. It can still burn them, but it's been looking for dry, dead lands for a long time, now, for a place filled with what was once alive but is now dead.

"I know, when a wall of fire is coming at you, the sensible thing is to run. But, not if it means the world goes up in flames." He looked at her wistfully. "I want you to run, but the fire is coming. You're more powerful than you know, Belle. Remember what you know and remember the magic you've done. All it takes to bring down the most powerful enemy is the right act at the right time."

"Belle? Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

Struggling to open her eyes, Belle made out the blurry image of Gaston—in his human form—looking down on her.

X

Belle had woken up to the shambles of Rumple's room, Gaston beside her. Philip-Roland was, somehow, alive. She remembered trying to use what she'd learned from Rumple's books to command the protection from her ring into the baby. Crude as her efforts must have been, they seemed to have worked. Philip-Roland survived. Barely. He was still and gray when she picked him up, the blanket lying under him soaked with blood. But, Belle could feel the faint flutter of his heart beneath her hand. Or she thought she could.

"Upstairs," she had told Gaston, holding the blanket against Philip-Roland's wound. "Rumple's study. Come with me. Hurry!"

"Belle, your wounds—"

"Not now, Gaston," Belle said, running for the hall. She had paused only long enough to close the door. Ignoring the pain in her neck and back and hoping there were no other magic traps left behind by the thief, she hurried up to Rumplestiltskin's tower with the baby. She didn't know how to use the healing wand without fairy dust, but that wasn't the only option.

_All magic comes with a price_.

She remembered Rumplestiltskin's warning, along with his fears that a baby under the unchanging effects of the curse would be especially vulnerable to dark magic. But, Belle was hardly going to let the child die. Belle found the bottle she needed, water from Lake Nostos.

_Just a bit,_ she told herself, filling a thimble sized measuring cup. _Just a tiny bit. _ Cradling Philip-Roland in her arms, she let the water dribble into his mouth. _Please, let it not be too late. Please. _Rumple had told her some of the stories of this water and its siren guardian. Dozens had died along its shore. Were their lives the price of using it? Or was there another debt still to be paid?

Philip-Roland gasped, his gray cheeks turning pink. He began to scream heartily. Belle pulled back the blanket. The wound was gone.

She heaved a sigh of relief. "Aurora," she said. "Tell her he's all right. . . ." Belatedly, the obvious began to dawn on her. The intruder had looked like Philip. Aurora _might_ have let him take her son. Or she might not have. "Gaston, where's Aurora? What happened to her?"

"The doorway," Gaston said, getting up. "I—I left her there. She was wounded. I—I couldn't stop to see how badly."

Belle grabbed the bottle of Nostos water, along with other medicines. Running up here with Philip-Roland, she'd been able to ignore the pain. Now, it seemed to explode. She wanted to stop and rest, not go running up and down more stairs. . . .

"Here," Gaston said, taking the medicines and Philip-Roland from her. "You look like you're going to drop them." That was Gaston, always tactful in a crisis.

When they went downstairs, the other refugees had already gathered around Aurora. They'd brought their weapons with them, which Belle tried to tell herself was a good thing even while several pairs of hostile, suspicious eyes flew up as she entered.

But, the hostility, she realized, was aimed at Gaston. Of course. Most of them had never seen him in this shape. Belle took the baby and medicines back from him (they weighed so little, how could it hurt so much to hold them?). "Gaston, you need to go back to being a dog." He looked at her blankly. "_Now, _Gaston."

The light went on in Gaston's eyes. Belle walked ahead of him, giving him space to change, and heard a few gasps as he transformed.

"Lady. . . ?" One of the refugees, a young fisherman named Ammon, asked.

"Aurora," Belle said. "Let me through. I need to see her."

The crowd parted. Mulan was kneeling beside Aurora, already washing her wound. It didn't seem as bad as Belle had feared, though there was a great deal of blood—

—And another body lying beside her. The Widow Pierce.

Widow Pierce was dead, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her hand already growing cold under Belle's touch. But, there was no sign of any injury on her.

"What happened?" Belle asked. "Was it magic?"

Mulan looked up at her. Her normally calm features were guilt ridden, but she answered calmly. "Of a sort. When she saw Aurora, she said she knew something that might help. I think—I think she cast a spell. There was a sort of light over both of them. When it faded, Widow Pierce just dropped down, right where she was. And Aurora, she's still hurt, but it's not as bad. She's been stronger since. _You _look like the one we should be dealing with."

"I. . . ." Belle tried to think of a protest, but the rush of blood that had carried her along since she saw Philip-Roland dead or dying was wearing off. Mulan took Philip-Roland from her as she slumped to the ground, looking over Aurora's wound. "We need to bandage this," she said. "It's not as bad as it was, but. . . ."

"I'll take care of it. And I'll take care of you," Mulan said. "Belle, the man who broke into the castle, he wasn't Philip. Philip would die before he harmed Aurora or their son. Who was he?"

"An enemy. Of Rumple's. He stole. . . ." Belle looked at the doors, still wide open. "Close those. We should have had a guard, or. . . . It's too late now. That man, I think he works for Cora. If he's used the dagger—or if she has it—things have just gotten much worse. For all of us."

Mulan looked at her. "Worse than this land emptied by a curse and monsters eating anyone they can find?"

"Yes," Belle said. She thought of her strange dream and the man who was and wasn't Rumplestiltskin warning her of fire. Cora, she thought, was heartless, full of dry grass for the curse with nothing green and growing inside her to stop it. And, if Belle was right, she had the dagger. "Much worse."

X

**Note: **The poem "The Hollow Men" gets another appearance for this chapter's title. This may be a bit funny, since I'm not really a fan of this poem, which has always been too much of a downer for me. Still, this part of the poem deals with an overlap of dreams and death and with the hope of something better in death mixed with the fear of something worse, which I hope reflects the Very Bad Point Belle and the refugees have gotten to. Of course, Hook is the one with deliberate disguises that can be compared to a rat's coat, crowskin, or crossed staves in a battlefield. Let me tell you, I'm looking forward to being able to name a chapter after Dickinson's "Hope is the Thing with Feathers."

_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column  
There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star._

Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer -


End file.
